The Moon and the Suns
by I'm Over There
Summary: Sequel to The Mouse and the Spider. Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes play possum. Molly Hooper keeps the fox and the hound chasing their tails instead of each other. After all, it takes a mouse to scare an elephant. But some wild beasts can never be tamed. They have to be broken. And meanwhile, far from Molly's little zoo, the animal kingdom is preparing for war...
1. Playing Dead

**Got impatient with the title poll.  
**

**lol.  
**

**Decided to go with a title that has the same initials as the previous story to make it easy.  
**

**First off, before we begin (and before I forget)…**

**Why the nose? **

**Because Jim told Molly hers was cute on her blog when they first started talking before 'The Great Game' episode. **

**I should have said that ages ago. **

**And why June 16? _(shoulda done this yesterday…grr…) _**

**Because of John's blog. Google it since I can't post links. **

**Idk about the weather in London, but they were all wearing heavy coats. **

**(They shot the episode in the cold early spring though, so that may be why.) **

**And that's why I killed my whole family with toothpicks. **

**Still reading?**

**Just trying to see if anyone pays any attention to these things. **

**Here, now I'm going to tell you why I'm nervous. **

**The thing is…**

**We all know that whenever Series Three finally airs that 'The Mouse and the Spider' is going to be even more un-canon than it already is, as will this impending sequel. **

**We also all know that the creators like to trick people. **

**So I'm getting that sinking feeling that either Molly's gonna end up being dark!Molly the whole time just to screw with us and Sherlock 'needed' her to confront her about working for Moriarty…**

…**or that we're going to learn (by implication, only, of course) how deeply in love Jim and dear Sebastian were and how he wants revenge against Sherlock for the death of his 'good friend'. **

**Or both. **

**Because from a writer's perspective it looks like they're keeping their options open with the Molly character. **

**And while Moffat and Gatiss maybe besties but the other writers for the show and supplementary online material don't seem to be communicating. **

**I attribute dialogue inconsistencies ("I ended it") to this rather than to lies told by character—although they were quite convenient to work into my story. **

**It always bothered me Jim being 'changeable' walking away like that and then coming right back. I know he's supposed to be "insane" but...it didn't really make sense. **

**That's why I gave him an older brother, also to match with Sherlock and also since Doyle was kind of inconsistent himself sometimes…**

**(And _definitely_ not to solve the pesky MorMor problem _at all._) **

**My family's alive, of course, by the way. Still reading? **

**Time to read.**

* * *

Molly Hooper had never been good with people.

She was shy, awkward and uncomfortable with fellow (living) humans.

She preferred solitude—but only because it was better than the _shame_ and _rejection_ that came with socialization.

It was why she chose to work down in the basement morgue of St. Bartholomew's hospital.

It was cold, dimly-lit and full of the dead.

Just the kind of place_ normal people _would avoid.

Molly was _safe_ there.

Because Molly Hooper had never been good with people.

And people had never been good with Molly Hooper.

Death had surrounded her since childhood.

She was used to it.

It was a natural part of life, she understood (just like everyone understood), but it was also a natural part of life to recoil from it.

Molly'd never seen the point of that.

She knew it would chase her no matter where she ran, find her no matter where she hid.

And _that's _why she didn't dare become a doctor and risking causing it for others (or being unable to _stop_ it as she always had).

No,_ instead_ she cared for the dead.

And she never was hurt that they didn't care back.

After all, she was used to that, too.

What Molly_ wasn't _used to, was _life._

Molly as she attempted to stop the blood seeping in tune to the steady and slow beats of the heart, from the back of Jim's skull.

She_ knew_ what to do, to stop bleeding (just apply pressure)…she'd just never done it before (on somebody's head, somebody _almost _dead).

Jim was unconscious and Molly didn't know when—or even if—he'd wake up again.

But at least he was alive, _at least he was alive…_

* * *

And the first thing Jim saw when he awoke was Molly.

It was a kind of poetic (cliché—yet completely appropriate) thing to say that her face in soft-focus and sharp light, looked like an angel floating above him through his struggling to open and dilated eyes.

He_ didn't_ say it, though.

He didn't even _think_ it, either, for more than the smallest of seconds and it was but a single string in his tightly knotted, totally tangled mind.

Jim was still more than half asleep when he finally managed to open his eyes, squinting up at the figure (Molly) beside (and above) him.

"I'm alive." He said.

He_ would_ have explained (if he were in his 'right mind' (as if he ever had such a thing)) that he knew this because there was _no way_ he'd be in Heaven if he'd died.

And he knew this wasn't Hell (wherever he was—he did not yet know) because Hell would be a lot warmer.

_A lot. _

"Yes you are." Molly confirmed.

Jim tried to sit up but found he couldn't move.

This is when he realized that he also couldn't_ feel_ anything—_physically_ at least.

There wasn't even a tingling or numbness to his body.

It was if it just wasn't there.

(Maybe he had died, after all. Maybe he was just a ghost…)

"Where am I?" Jim asked.

"The morgue." Molly answered.

But of course, Jim had answered his own question before the words had even formed in Molly's mouth.

He felt the cool metal table beneath him, he recognized that ceiling and the frigid air of the room—as well as the most _important_ piece of 'equipment' in the morgue _Molly Hooper. _

"But I am alive." Jim smiled—or_ tried_ too. He couldn't feel his face and so he didn't know if he had been successful in his attempt at a facial expression.

"Yes you are." Molly repeated.

She smiled down at him—_forced and hesitantly_—and so Jim guessed he had.

She wasn't happy.

But neither was _he._

He was_ supposed_ to be _dead._

"What happened?" Jim demanded.

He would've shouted if he _could._

"Sherlock committed suicide." Molly declared.

"I know _that."_ Jim exclaimed, "Why's everything always got to be about _him? _I meant what happened to _me!" _

"_You?"_ Molly snapped, with a false and bitter laugh, "You got what you wanted. Sherlock Holmes is dead—"

"But I'm still alive!" Jim interrupted, "How did that happen? I shot myself—"

"Yes you did." Molly agreed, "…with a lighter."

Jim opened his mouth to speak closed it and then opened it again. His eyes widened.

…or, at least, that's what he _assumed_ must have occurred on his face as he could not actually_ feel_ it.

"…what…?" he finally asked.

"You didn't have a real gun." Molly told him, "It was just lighter. It belonged—"

"To the _cabbie?"_ Jim inquired, "I know. I knew _all about_ that little _trick_ old Mr. Hope liked to pull. But do you honestly think I don't know what a real gun looks like? _I do._ I'm _very experienced_ with guns, Molly—took a course online once—and that gun I had was a _real._ Got it from my own brother and I even test-fired it to make sure James didn't try any 'funny business' with me."

"He knew you would do that." Molly stated, "And he also knew you weren't going to shoot _Sherlock_ with the gun you asked him for like you_ told_ him you would. He knew you were going to try to kill yourself—"

"It was a real gun. I know when I've got the real thing in my hands. There's just a certain _feel _to it. Now, darling, I know_ you've_ probably never held a gun before in your life but—"

"I have."

"…_what?" _

"I have."

"_Really,_ now? And when was _that?_ The detective inspector pull out his and let you _hold _it?"

Jim stared up at Molly's expressionless face as it started to_ twist_ into a genuine and _triumphant_ smile.

"It was this morning." Molly said, "When I switched the real gun with the fake."

Jim snorted.

"That was a lighter." He dismissed, "I was out for what, four-maybe five hours—"

"Three." Molly corrected, "Almost four. It's been three hours and forty minutes since you 'died'?"

" 'Died'?" Jim repeated, hoping that his eyebrow had risen the way he'd wanted it to.

"I determined Richard Brook's time of death to be exactly twelve this afternoon." Molly informed.

"And_ how,_ exactly, did I die from shooting myself with a cigarette lighter?" Jim questioned, "And don't tell me it was lung cancer."

Molly took a breath, brows furrowing as her brain searched for the proper explanation.

"…well…" she began, "Your brother can probably explain this better than I can, you see, it's not my area of science—"

"Just tell me already!" Jim demanded, "Tell me why I'm still alive!"

"Do you remember that…um…chemical mixture you used?" Molly asked, "The spray that knocked out the guard posted inside the Tower of London?"

"…yes…" Jim nodded (or attempted to nod), beginning to put 'two and two together', "It was Sherlock's idea, actually. He once took down a CIA agent like that. It's just his secret recipe. A simple magic potion mixed up from everyday cleaning supplies you can find in your own home…Are you trying to say you _poisoned_ me, Molly?"

"_I_ didn't poison you." Molly replied, "Your brother did. I just switched the guns. And it was all nonlethal, anyway—well _obviously _it was since you're here and you're _fine—" _

"I am_ not_ 'fine'!" Jim shouted, "I shouldn't _be_ 'fine'! I should be _dead!_ I _need_ to be dead!"

"Jim, don't say that—" Molly tried but was quickly cut-off.

"How could you do this to me, Molly?" Jim roared, "How could you leave me alive with nothing to live for? Sherlock is _dead!..._ _I_ should be dead! _We _should be dead! Me and Sherlock, Sherlock and I! _Dead together! _I can't live like this, I just can't!"

Molly gaped at Jim, stepping backwards away from him and his outburst.

He was there on the cold gray table, face contorting in all the motions and emotions that his body couldn't move to demonstrate, a helpless and hopeless child.

His shouts them quieted to sobs.

"I'm nothing without him, _nothing_…" Jim continued, "I can't_ live_ without Sherlock, I can't live without _Sherlock Holmes_ …_I'm empty…I'm empty…"_

And Molly said nothing—she was unable _to_ speak.

She just stood there, staring in absolute _horror_ at the Jim Moriarty she saw before her.

James had told her to expect anger (which is why he had recommended she use a paralytic on Jim) but not _this. _

Dramatic as it was, Molly then realized that Jim_ wasn't_ pretending.

He was serious.

Dead serious.

And he was c_rying. _

Only a very, _very little…_

…but the tears (and they _were_ tears) were there, glinting like dying stars (super novas) in his already reddened (already deadened) eyes.

"…I—I'm sorry—" Molly heard herself say, the instinctual response to these kind of situations, the habit she had tried so hard to break.

She didn't know whether to go towards him or back further away and so she was frozen in place.

Their eyes met.

Jim and Molly stared at each other for an endless, brief moment and when the tiny tear had fled down from the black hole of Jim's eye, dried up and disappeared, Jim finally spoke.

"…yes…" he sighed, with a smile as he closed his eyes, "I suppose you will be..."

* * *

Life in the morgue was what it was (that is to say life in the morgue was the oxymoron that it was).

How else could one_ feel_ dead but the absence of all feeling?

Jim had already been…_hollow_ inside and now his 'interior' lack of emotion matched his exterior numb.

His body now matched his mind.

Jim Moriarty was dead.

And he should have been, too.

…_Just like Sherlock Holmes…_

Jim didn't know how Molly managed to keep everyone away from her workroom, to keep everybody from _seeing,_ from _knowing._

(Maybe they _did_ see, but they just didn't _observe._ Maybe they _did_ know, but they just didn't _care.)_

His first night in the cold room Molly had been polite enough to tuck all the other, actually dead bodies into their drawers to sleep, leaving Jim on the table.

She'd turned off all the lights and locked the doors.

Jim was meant to think she had gone home for the night but he knew Molly too well to believe that.

The cautious, jumpy (paranoid) girl would be in the next room, curled up against the door to the one he was in, using her labcoat as a blanket as she slept.

In the morning it would be stained and wrinkled.

Now Jim was awake again.

He still couldn't move.

And neither could his new 'friend' on the table next to him that had been wheeled in by Molly a few hours ago while he'd pretended to be asleep.

His new 'friend' wasn't pretending.

Jim couldn't see the man's (the body's) eyes but he was sure that Molly had shut them out of 'respect' (and out of politeness to Jim because if she got a little…_unnerved_ by the open eyes of the dead, even after years of working with corpse, he must too(—not that Jim worked with corpses for years. It was only ever _minutes_ at a time)).

Jim was going to have a little chat with his new 'friend' now, so as to '_unnerve' _Molly when she returned.

Jim was_ supposed_ to, of course, be _playing dead._

When Molly had left him, he'd been playing asleep. She'd believed it.

They weren't yet on 'speaking terms'.

Molly was still 'unnerved' by his words yesterday, unsure of how and what to say to Jim not and_ Jim_ just really had nothing to _say_ to Molly at all.

She shouldn't have interfered in his Game with Sherlock.

_And that was that. _

Once he could move again, oh, she would _definitely_ be 'sorry'.

All the things she'd ever been afraid of him doing to her (and all the things she'd never be brilliant enough to think of) he would do.

And Jim was sure Molly knew this, too.

That was probably why she had stuck a syringe into his neck early that morning when she'd thought he was a sleep.

Just because he couldn't feel it, didn't mean he didn't know exactly what was going on here.

This was all James doing, too.

But Jim didn't have to worry about _James_ anymore.

No doubt Mycroft was already 'taking care' of him soon, as per their agreement…

* * *

_**Sir, Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof as planned. **_

_**####**_

_**That means that -1 just attempted suicide. You know what to do.**_

* * *

By the time Moran had carried the body—_unconscious,_ not _dead_—of Jim down to the morgue, James and Molly were already there.

Molly gasped.

She hadn't expected the _blood._

Moran, as gently as he could, set the limp Jim down on the empty (recently sterilized as well—Molly must have just cleaned up in preparation) metal table.

Instantly Molly ran towards it, reaching for Jim.

"Don't." Moran warned, although he stood on the other side of the table his words halted her.

"You wouldn't want to get your nice white labcoat dirty." James added, with a short smile that Molly didn't see as she had her back turned to him.

"Is he—"Molly started.

She stared down at Jim.

His eyes were open, but saw nothing. He looked dead. And Molly knew what dead looked like.

"He's alive." Moran stated, lifting Jim's wrist (a faint—but steady—pulse) in demonstration.

"…but the blood…" Molly murmured, she looked up at Moran.

"He must have cracked his skull when he fell." He guessed.

He then walked away from her, Jim and the table, over to where James stood by the door.

Molly's gaze followed him as he went until she was looking at James.

"You told me he wouldn't get hurt." She said, as emotionlessly as possible, trying to match the calmness and coldness of the room—and everyone else in it.

"I told you he wouldn't _die."_ James corrected, with a shrug, "You know that to save someone you sometimes must hurt them."

"Not like _this!"_ Molly countered, she looked back over at Jim quickly then back to James and Moran who looked back at her with blank faces, "He could have permanent damage. He could still…"

"All you asked me to do was help you save his life." James reminded, "I did that."

"But he's—he's bleeding!" Molly cried.

She didn't understand how James had no reaction to this situation. Why would he have even bothered to help her if he didn't care?

"He's alive." James said.

He turned to go, Moran turned to follow him.

"Wait!" Molly called after them and they stopped but didn't turn back around, "You're just going to leave him like that? He's your brother! Don't you _care?"_

"Not anymore." James replied.

"He's your problem now." Moran added.

And then they were gone.

Molly doubted that she'd ever see either of them again.

She turned away from the now empty doorway, back over to Jim still unconscious on the gray table, staring up at her with a smile on his face.

She closed his eyes.

* * *

"_I've left the breadcrumbs all over this city…now it's up to you to follow them."_ Jim had said.

And Mycroft had _listened._

Anthea was just reviewing security footage from St. Bartholomew's…

_(Sherlock stays over night in a lab. He goes to the roof the next morning. No cameras on the roof. No cameras outside. The dead body of Sherlock Holmes is brought inside on a stretcher by various hospital personnel. Cameras in the morgue disabled on Mycroft's orders.)_

…after Sherlock Holmes's 'death', when she saw where this 'trail of breadcrumbs' led.

Quickly, she showed her employer the still on her smartphone.

James Moriarty 'just happened' to be walking through the halls of the hospital the day Sherlock and Jim both 'died'.

There was only momentary flash of surprise in his eyes at the _'coincidence'. _

And then, Mycroft laughed.

It was a short laugh, though, disbelieving and all-knowing at the same time as he shook his head at himself and one of the _very_ few times in his life that he'd ever felt _stupid._

* * *

"Sherlock's still alive, isn't he?" is how Jim finally decided to 'break the ice' with Molly and start talking to her again.

She jumped a little at his words and if he'd asked her why she'd swear it was because hearing his voice after such a long silence had startled her—not his question.

She had been examining the body of some unidentified man who'd been shot dead on the street for no apparent by a sniper.

Jim was still lying (still _paralyzed) _on her old table, able only to turn his head to look over at her.

Molly looked up at him.

"No." she denied, shaking her head, "He's not. Sherlock is dead."

Her face was deliberately, _strugglingly_ expressionless.

"I don't believe you…" Jim crooned.

"There's no way Sherlock could have survived a fall like that." Molly stated, restarting her work again and preoccupying her gaze with the open corpse below her rather than the live body on the next table, "Nobody could."

"You forget that Sherlock's no 'mere mortal'—"

"Yes, he is—or, _was._ Just like me. Just like _you." _

"Then he had _help_… Just like _me."_

Molly paused, tool in dead skin, holding her breath but _not _glancing up at Jim.

He chuckled.

"I knew it…I knew it…Sherlock is alive. I can feel it. Maybe my staying alive isn't so bad after all…"

Molly sighed.

"Sherlock is dead."

"Then why aren't you crying your pretty little eyes out, Molly? Sherlock was your _friend,_ wasn't he? That means something to you even if it doesn't to him. He's gone and _you didn't save him._ No, you only saved _me._ You said you wouldn't choose between us, _you wouldn't pick a side_…So either you changed your mind or _Sherlock's still alive." _

Molly set down her scalpel and looked up and over towards Jim who'd been watching her work all morning with lazy and intense eyes.

"I_ tried_ to help Sherlock. I didn't tell you that before...but you _knew._ I knew you knew because you _always _know. But Sherlock didn't _want _my help. I told you, he figured out what was going on between us. He doesn't—he didn't trust me…and maybe if he _had,_ he'd still be alive."

The _purpose_ on her face (comprised of a furrowed brow and insistent, unblinking stare) was sincere enough to satisfy Jim…_for now._

(But what that 'purpose' truly _was_ Jim did not yet know.)

However, it really wasn't Molly's _honesty _that mattered—it was _Sherlock Holmes._

Molly_ should_ have realized this.

She should have realized this because she, like Jim, understood that Sherlock and Jim weren't meant to be apart (although they had interpreted this meaning differently (Molly wanting Jim and Sherlock to both be _alive—_Jim wanting them both _dead_)).

So if Molly had decided to 'take the initiative' (stick her nose into other people's business) and keep him alive she sure as hell better have kept _Sherlock_ alive, too…that is, if she wanted to keep _herself_ alive.

"_You know…"_ Jim began, his voice falsely casual and full of _promise,_ "I didn't really_ mean_ it, what I said before about making you sorry. You know I'd _never_ hurt you. I'd never even dream of it—okay, well, maybe I _have_ 'dreamed' of it, hurting you… Seeing your blood, hearing your screams, smelling your fear…_feeling_ it, _tasting_ it…" (There was an artfully timed pause in which Jim sighed and closed his eyes deliberately, musingly…and Molly kept her breath from catching by swallowing.) "…but I'd never actually _do_ it. Not to _you,_ Molly,_ never_ to _you…" _

He watched Molly's face (her body now as frozen as his was) try not contort as she tried to decipher the reason for his statement.

He was _lying,_ wasn't he?

Of course he was.

He_ must_ have been.

But did he think _she'd_ think he was lying?

Did he_ want_ her to think he was lying?

Did he _want_ her to think he wanted her to think he was lying?

The multiple possibilities churned round and round through Molly's mind like mice running on exercise wheels.

Jim smirked.

He loved to watch as she tried to figure him out (not knowing,_ of course_, that _he _wasn't even able to do that himself).

She always ended up more confused and more afraid than she'd started.

And maybe that was what was fascinating to Jim about Molly Hooper.

It's not that she stayed around (with) him_ because_ she was afraid him and she just loved the thrill—_No._ She stayed around (with) him _even though_ she was afraid of him and didn't even know _why._

Jim didn't know why, either.

And every time he'd try to figure it out, he'd end up more confused (and more afraid—_no!)_ than he'd started.

Molly grimaced…

…but then _she_ smirked, too.

It was unnatural and unpracticed on her face. It was unbecoming and _unnerving _and Jim didn't like it.

"No, you _won't."_ Molly confirmed, "You won't hurt me. You _can't _hurt me. You can't _move."_

"You can't trap like this _forever."_ Jim scoffed, "Sooner or later someone'll figure out you've got me doped up down here in the morgue. And depending on who that someone is, we'll both end up either in _prison_…or _dead." _

"I know _that."_ Molly conceded, "I'm not _stupid._ I have a plan."

"A work of _pure genius,_ I'm sure." Jim dismissed, "But do you _honestly expect_ me to just go _merrily along_ with your little _'plan'?"_

"…you…you won't have a _choice."_ Molly declared, trying to laugh haughtily but laughing nervously instead.

Jim snickered up to the ceiling for an uncomfortably (for Molly) amount of time before finally stopping to wheeze still amused sighs.

He turned back to face Molly.

She was getting pretty good at showing no emotion (no _fear)_ but Jim was _more _than pretty good at reading people.

"Kidnapping isn't your thing, love." Jim told Molly, "Stick to dead people. You'll find they're much easier to work with and don't normally cause _trouble_…_Live _people, on the other hand, always, always _do." _

"Not if they can't move." Molly reminded.

And Jim laughed at that, too.

"_You'd be surprised…"_ he mused, "Words can kill a person just as well as any weapon-better even, much cleaner. They're dangerous things, my dear... just ask Sherlock Holmes."

Molly had to agree with this.

It was only a day after Sherlock's 'suicide' but every single media outlet was already defaming the famous consulting detective (—now, the infamous fraud).

And so she said nothing—she was unable to speak.

"Besides," Jim continued upon her silence, "I could cut you open and tear out your insides, just like you're doing to that man there, with just my words. _I could hurt you_…if I _wanted_ to."

"You already have…" Molly whispered, down at the corpse on the other table.

And Jim should have laughed, should have scoffed and snorted, should have said something.

But he didn't.

Instead he just stared.

Both of them were motionless (him involuntarily—her…well, it was _sort of _'involuntary' as well, but for a _different,_ nonphysical reason. The kind of penalization resulting from not knowing where to go or what to do and being so afraid) for a long, silent moment.

Finally, Molly moved to look up at the clock on the wall.

Jim stretched his neck to follow her gaze but didn't have the range of motion to see what she was looking at…

…or _did _he?

So involved in the conversation, Jim hadn't noticed the _tingle_ starting to make its faint and tentative journey through his paralyzed body.

Now he _did._

It was like the tiny crackles of a dead flame, only embers but all too easy to fan back into a roaring flame.

"Time for your medicine." Molly chirped.

Leaving her gloves behind with the corpse and the scalpel, Molly stepped around the second metal table in the room and went over to her favorite patient.

From her labcoat, she pulled out the syringe.

Jim couldn't move as she injected him again (for the third time…or had there been more?) with whatever mystery drug (the same one she'd used on him before at the hotel? _no. _that one had knocked him out.) she'd 'burrowed' from the hospital.

One day, Jim decided, after he'd built up a tolerance to this 'medicine' he'd snatch the syringe right out of Molly's unsuspecting hands and jam it into her neck (a lot less carefully as she'd done to him).

Then when she was paralyzed he'd store her in the fridges with the rest of the bodies where she'd either freeze or suffocate (or maybe even starve) to death…

_No. _

Jim could—_would_ do better than _that._

He'd paralyze her then put her up on her own table where they'd have so much fun playing 'operation'.

No.

_No, no, no…_

Jim knew neither of those ideas (or any of the ones not 'good' enough to mention) would work.

The drug didn't just paralyze, it _numbed._

And Jim wanted Molly to _hurt._

To hurt for saving his life when he'd so wanted to die and finally be at peace…

As Jim felt—or _didn't_ feel—the _nothingness_ retake him again and kill the tingling he realized that next time he killed himself he'd have to kill Molly, too.

* * *

**Short, I know...**

**...but so was the first chapter of the old one.  
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**Maybe the next one'll be longer...idk...maybe they'll all be short lol.  
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**I'm warning you all now, though, this story is not a happy one and there is not going to be happy ending.  
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**No one will die, though(-no one that counts, at least).  
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**So is life going to be worth living for the characters, for this story, if it's not exactly happy?  
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**I'm sure the reviews (or lack thereof) will decide that.  
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**lol.  
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**And speaking of reviews...  
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	2. Visitors

**Hey, there! ****  
**

**Second chapter!**

**Thanks so much for all the reviews so far.****  
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**Ten per chapter, pretty good :)  
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**Course, now I'll be expecting more from you...  
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**You can expect 'more' from me, too, since this story is going to get very strange.  
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**But Jim and Molly will end up together so all you gals can be happy about that.  
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**That's more than Moffat or Gatiss has ever done for any of you, and although my updates are slow...I'm much quicker than they are.  
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**And much poorer, too.  
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**Hear me talking like this and I can tell I'm getting arrogant...but it also means I'm in a good mood.  
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**And when I'm in a good mood I can write faster.  
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**It feels so good to be free and free I almost am.****  
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**Fiction is almost as good as real life, sometimes-especially when it's better. ** **  
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**I think my hair will survive, I let it loose and I'm still alive.  
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**And happy too, I think I'm happy.  
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**I hope this chapter makes everybody happy!  
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* * *

_WWSD? _

What would _Sherlock _do?

_How _would he fake his death?

_Would _he fake his death?

Would he be_ able_ to?

(Of course he would. The man is—was(—is?) a genius!)

But _did_ he?

Was he still alive?

…_was there still a chance…? _

Jim's contemplation was interrupted by the sound of the door opening to the morgue.

Molly was back.

Maybe he would just ask her straight out _'how did Sherlock do it?' _like he_ knew _Sherlock wasn't dead and call her bluff…

…or look very stupid if Sherlock was actually dead.

_Maybe not. _

Jim peeked one eye open.

Molly was not back.

A group of four people (hospital employees from their uniforms, but not from the morgue) had entered the room, glancing around because they'd never been down here before (and to make sure they didn't get caught).

Jim shut his eye quickly.

(Sure scaring them by being alive would have been funny, but not being able to move limited his options of humor.)

"He's in here somewhere."

Then the footsteps separated and spread out all over the room.

"Is _that _him?"

"No."

"You'll recognize him when you see him."

Drawers were being opened, bodies pulled out and then pushed back in, drawers were being slammed shut.

"But how do we find him? There's so many in here!"

"Just keep looking. It's not like he got up and walked away."

And just _who_ were these four looking for?

Four guesses:

_Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes. _

"There he is."

Jim opened both eyes.

They all had their backs turned to him, huddled around what must have been what (who (Sherlock)) they were searching for.

"Ugh, that's him?"

"That's the one."

"You sure?"

"It_ looks_ like him…but I can't really tell…"

"The man jumped off a building—this building, actually. His face is gonna be messed up like that."

"Okay…"

"Ew….I think it's decomposing…"

"No! Don't touch it!"

"I'm taking a picture…"

One of the four pulled his phone from his uniform pocket and aimed it towards the body that Jim couldn't see.

"Say cheese!"

"Move! Get out of the shot!"

"Smile—no, I wasn't talking to _you_, I was talking to the dead guy."

"Excuse me, what are you all doing in here?"

And_ now_ Molly was back.

The group startled, froze for a second, and then turned to see who had addressed them.

Molly was standing in the door trying to look like the authority figure in the room.

She _did_ look angry, yes, but her angry was not at all intimidating.

It was cute, actually, adorable…

"…we're just…uh…paying our respects?" the leader of the four attempted, it had been his idea to come down to the road and poke at the dead animal with a stick.

"He's taking a picture." Molly countered, pointing to his friend with the cameraphone, "That's not respectful."

The friend quickly stowed his phone back into his pants pocket, sheepishly, with a nervous laugh.

The leader glared—first at him (for admitting their guilt in the situation)—and then at Molly.

"We don't have to explain ourselves to you." he declared, "We have permission to be here."

"From who?" Molly asked. Her eyebrows were too furrowed, however, to raise skeptically.

"From _me."_ The leader stated, "I work here. So does she. She works at the front desk. She does all the scheduling."

He gestured to the woman of the group and glanced at her expectantly.

She shrugged, and then shook her head to absolve herself of the responsibility (cast on her by the office romance boyfriend she was definitely going to dump after this little incident that just might get them all fired).

Molly examined her and then the leader.

"You all work here?" she checked, "I've never seen you before."

"I've never seen you before." the leader returned.

"I'm going to have to report this to my supervisor." She warned them, "You can't be down here without permission.

Jim bit his tongue so he didn't laugh.

(How hypocritical! The little goody-two-shoes who complained about people breaking the rules and the law—and then went and did it herself? Jim _would_ teach her a lesson…but he was paralyzed.)

Molly let 'visitors' down in the morgue without official permission all the time (…just so long as they were geniuses, of course—well, she _did_ have to have _standards,_ didn't she?).

"Fine, we're leaving." The leader groaned, "You don't need to be such a bitch about it."

Jim bit his tongue so he didn't shout.

(How rude of him to sneak in somewhere unwelcome and then disrespect his host! Jim_ would_ teach him a lesson…but he was paralyzed.)

He and his group of four started towards the exit, Molly hurried past them to cover 'Sherlock' with a blanket and then return him to the refrigerator.

"Thank you." Molly said once she saw the four exit.

She'd meant it to sound sarcastic, but somehow that never seemed to work for her.

Molly watched them leave …until one didn't leave.

The man with the phone, the woman and her now ex-boyfriend had already gone down the hallway, but he—who had been quiet the entire conversation (confrontation)—stayed behind, just at the threshold of the room.

"Why are you protecting him?" he asked Molly.

"…protecting who?" Molly inquired, carefully.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man said.

Molly said nothing and Jim held his breath as he knew she must have been doing…

_(How much did this guy know?) _

…maybe today would be interesting after all.

"He was…not a good person." The man continued, upon Molly's silence, "He was a liar and criminal."

"No he wasn't!" Molly snapped, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"_You_ don't know what _you're _talking about. It's been _two days_ since he died. Why do you think no one has come for the body? No family—"

"Sherlock didn't have much family. His brother works for the government and he's been too busy—"

"For his own brother's death? I don't think so. Besides, didn't Holmes's have a partner? Why do you think_ he_didn't come for the body, either?"

"This is a Protestant hospital, they don't allow that here. And it's not even how you think, they weren't—"

"No. Sherlock Holmes died alone because he lived. He had no friends. Nobody loved him—"

"_I did." _

Molly's 'confession' was sudden, sure and unshaking—_so_ sure and unshaking that Jim hoped it had been forced…and _false._

Merely brought about by the drama of the moment, to defend Sherlock's 'honor' or to prove a point.

Molly had always been more nervous when speaking her true feelings than her lies, hadn't she?

…_hadn't she? _

"Well no one else did, I'm sure." The man commented, with a snort, "The man was a liar and you're a fool for loving him… _no wonder_ you're keeping him down here for all yourself then."

"…Please…" Molly all but begged, now, "…Just leave. _Now."_

"Alright." The man conceded, turning go, "Have a nice day, ma'am."

Molly's back was to Jim and he was staring into the white of her labcoat.

He hoped when she faced him she would have little dramatic tears in the corners of her eyes.

She didn't.

"You stayed still." Molly acknowledged.

"Had no choice." Jim responded (he would have shrugged if he could), "You know I would've killed him if I did. Would've killed them all."

"You wouldn't have been able to." Molly disagreed, "Not even if you had a full energy and range of motion. There were too many of them at once."

"I may not _like _to get my hands dirty," Jim chided, "but that doesn't mean that I _can't _when I _have _to. And believe me, Molly, I can be very dirty…"

"You _are _dirty, Jim." Molly agreed and Jim was excited for a moment, especially as she crossed the room to shut and locked the door, "…and I need to clean you up."

"…Right…" Jim pouted, "Bath time for baby."

Awkward as he was disappointed, Jim could not move as Molly began to bathe him as he lay on the metal table.

It must have been when he was unconscious or sleeping that she'd changed him out of his suit (which better not have gotten stained in any way) and into a standard hospital patient gown.

It was, of course, _humiliating._

And, _of course,_ she would _pay_ for this.

Molly had her little bucket and little wash cloth and it looked more like she was scrubbing floors (and_ not_ 'Anderson and Sally style', _sadly,_ because Jim would have appreciated that kind of _'scrubbing'_ much more).

But she was obviously practiced at this, washing immobile but _live_ human beings, which did surprise Jim as Molly worked in a morgue.

"You're father, right?" Jim guessed, looking up at her.

"Yes." Molly affirmed, looking at his skin as she cleaned him rather than making eye contact.

"And how old were you?" He asked.

"Seventeen." She answered.

And that was as long as that particular conversation lived before Jim killed it, having quickly gotten bored.

"You should really let me kill them." He started, "You know they deserve it. They did the three things that I simply do not tolerate."

"Oh?" Molly responded with the obligatory asking for further explanation, a shortly and disinterestedly as possible.

She was lightly dabbing at his shoulders with the wash cloth.

Jim had to admit she had a certain style about completing this chore.

She started with his torso, always oh-so-gently, and worked her way down from there.

Jim had to crane his barely-moveable neck to watch.

And it was _all_ he could do, watch, since he couldn't _feel _any of it.

And Molly _knew._

…_Oh, did she know…_

(Jim was going to kill her, he really, really was.)

(Just as soon as he could move again, the first thing he'd do would be kill Molly Hooper. _The first thing.)_

…The cloth was on his stomach now, the cloth attached to the hand, the hand attached to the arm, the arm attached to the body, the body attached to the mind the mind of Molly…

(Okay, well, maybe the _second thing.)_

"What three things you don't tolerate?" Molly questioned and if someone can sound both innocently curious and completely detached at the same time, then they'd have her voice.

Jim had been silent too long, silent and watching.

He'd opened his mouth to speak, and then forgotten about it since he couldn't feel it just hanging there.

"The three things I don't tolerate…" Jim began, "Are speaking ill of the dead, speaking ill of Sherlock Holmes and speaking ill of Molly Hooper."

It was all bullshit, of course.

Or Jim was the biggest hypocrite in the world.

_(Both are correct.) _

"That's a nice thing to say, Jim…" Molly replied, "But I'm not going to let you move when I know you won't behave yourself. Now I'm going to give your medicine…"

Washcloth down somewhere (Jim couldn't see it _or _feel it), Molly's free hands brought and readied the syringe from her pocket.

"…Oh well…" Jim sighed.

He hummed _'Just a Spoonful of Sugar'_ and she stuck the needle into his neck.

* * *

There were patients in the hospital. Molly wasn't a doctor and she wasn't family or friend, but she'd visited them.

First there was the man, a security guard from the Tower of London, who'd been knocked out and to the floor by a mysterious mist from Jim's 'breath' spray-can.

He was still in a coma.

Why had Jim woken up but not him?

He'd also received no physical damage, unlike Jim who'd cracked his skull upon 'falling.

That answer was easy though.

A 'breath' spray-can didn't have the same kind of explosion built into it's firing mechanism as a gun did.

The other patient was a young boy, muscles twisting in intense pain on his hospital bed.

Minamata disease.

Mercury poisoning.

His little sister held his hand (where were their parents? Too busy…) that squeezed hers so hard it sometimes turned white.

Normally it was pink, both their hands were.

Acrodynia.

Mercury poisoning.

The girl wouldn't speak anymore. She was physically uninjured but there were more ways to hurt a person than sticks and stones.

The girl wouldn't speak anymore—except to her older brother and even then, it was mad babble.

Insanity.

Mercury poisoning.

Perhaps he understood it, sometimes siblings had their own language, but if he did he didn't say anything.

The boy didn't speak anymore.

No, he only cried.

_(…and where were their parents, where were their parents?…) _

And then Molly wondered if there were indeed fates worth than death.

* * *

"_You can't keep me here like this forever, Molly." _

The constant echo in the morgue whenever Jim was awake and Molly was there.

It was beginning to get _annoying._

Molly didn't look at or respond to Jim as she tidied up the room.

Sometimes, when he was sleeping, when it was quiet…it was alright.

Sometimes, when he was sleeping, when his eyes were closed and he wasn't moving, Molly would pretend that Jim actually was dead.

(Was that a wish? Yes—no—she didn't know.)

She could cry and then move on.

Molly didn't like to look at Jim, sometimes, she _couldn't_ look at him.

He'd hurt so many people, _he deserved to die…_

(Was that a wish? Yes—no—she didn't know.)

Of course, Molly didn't really believe that.

She'd seen so much death that she'd realized that it was a part of everybody's life and that everybody would die.

There was no such thing as being 'deserving' or not—death was just a _fact._

And Molly was _not _going to be the cause of it.

…but neither was _Jim._

Ever again.

Because this was a _compromise,_ you see, Jim paralyzed on the morgue table.

It was the only way to keep him alive_ and_ under control.

"You can't keep me here like this forever..." Jim said again.

And Molly ignored him again as she bustled around the room.

"…and you _won't."_ Jim continued, "You won't be _able_ to. Sooner or later, you won't be able to _stand it_ anymore. _Sooner or later you'll start to miss me…" _

"You're right here, Jim." Molly reminded, finally turning to and acknowledging him, "There's nothing _to _miss."

"Oh, but isn't there?" Jim smiled now that Molly was looking at him, "We both know there's no one else in the _world_ who knows how to _touch_ you the way_ I_ can—no one else even bothered to _learn."_

Molly blushed but gave him no other facial reaction.

Her face was so_ boring_ these days in its ugly neutral…

It was beginning to get _annoying. _

"I have to go now." Molly stated, "I have a_ meeting_ with my _colleague_ Robert."

It was bullshit, of course.

But Jim appreciated it since Molly was learning to play the words and meanings game.

Still he preferred her expressions and emotions (honest like she was, a true representation of her character) but if she was going to do…

…_whatever she thought she was doing by being a stoic, lying captor with only the slightest hint of retributive cruelty, _at least she was being _interesting _and maybe even a bit_ smart_ about it.

It was _some_ entertainment and without anything better to do, Jim was thankful for it.

"Have fun." He winked.

Molly turned and left.

* * *

On her way to the hospital cafeteria, Molly saw that man she had seen who'd forced her to leave the morgue.

_What was his name again?_

Molly couldn't remember.

He was talking to a woman…a woman that Molly _also_ didn't know the name of.

The one she'd seen outside of Sherlock's flat that one afternoon who'd forced her to leave the street.

Molly hung back in the hallway, watching (and listening to) the two converse in whispers.

"Where is he?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. But he's safe."

"I don't understand why I'm not allowed to tell John. I know we can trust him."

"It's not a question of trust. We need to protect Doctor Watson's safety."

"I really need to talk to your employer about this whole situation. I feel like I'm not being given all the information. I don't even know all the other parties involved."

"You don't need to worry about this. Have a nice day, Mr. Stanford."

The woman abruptly ended her conversation with the man, to hurry away day the hall, high heels clicking against the tiled floor and fingers clicking against the keys of her smartphone.

Stanford couldn't help but stare as she swayed away.

When he turned around he saw Molly in front of him, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Who was she?" Molly asked and then instantly regretted the form and the implication of the way she'd asked that questioned.

_She'd never been good at this…_

"A…um…friend…" Stanford fumbled, adjusting his glasses.

"I know she works for Mycroft Holmes." Molly stated.

"I thought she worked for _Sherlock _Holmes." Stanford explained, "She only told me she worked for _Mr._Holmes."

"How do you know her?" Molly questioned.

"Uh…well…." Stanford started. Clearly not being the best liar he decided to give a _partial _version of the truth, "…she's the one who hired Robert Hemsworth, the plastic surgeon."

"…Really?" Molly replied, taken-aback, "And what happened to Robert?"

"He…had to leave." Stanford told her.

"To where?" Molly inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"….uh…South America, I think." Stanford answered, "I don't know why. He just packed up his temporary office in a hurry a few days ago and ran out. I never saw him again."

"What was his job here?" Molly asked, "He never told me. All he said was a private client had hired him."

"I don't know." Stanford shrugged.

"…okay…" Molly accepted, skeptically, "Have a nice day."

"Thanks, you too." Stanford returned, smiling (nervously).

Molly didn't bother to smile (politely (falsely)) back as she turned and walked away.

…so Robert was hired by Mycroft Holmes and had quickly left right after Sherlock 'died'…

_How coincidental._

* * *

The door to Molly's workroom in the morgue opened, despite being locked.

Molly was back?

_No._

Too many footsteps.

So this was Jim's lucky day, then, _more visitors…_

…but when he opened his eyes to see who they were he quickly shut them again.

Anthea, along with three men also in black suits (but wearing pants instead of a skirt) filed into the room.

"We have five minutes." She declared, "Hooper won't be distracted for long. Get the body and let's go."

The suited men nodded and went to work.

Jim didn't dare look (_if he can't see them, they couldn't see him_—what sound logic an ostrich's logic is_)_ to see what exactly what they were doing, but it was pretty obvious.

_They were here for Sherlock. _

For a second, Jim hoped they would take him, too—

—but then changed his mind when he remembered that if they took him too, then he wouldn't be here to see the look on Molly's face when she returned to find him gone.

And for some reason, Anthea and the men didn't notice Jim lying there… or if they _did,_ they didn't _care._

They got in, got what they wanted, and then got gone.

And although Jim would surely miss Sherlock, he'd at least be able to enjoy the look on Molly's face when she returned to find him gone.

There_ would_ have been the flashing lights of cameras and video cameras, the shouting voices of spectators and reporters…

…if anyone had _known _about this.

'Sherlock Holmes' was being buried today.

And this funeral would not be televised.

Mycroft Holmes had made sure of that.

Instead, the only visitors to the new grave were John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Gregory Lestrade, Mike Stanford and Molly Hooper.

(Oh, and the hundred or so guards in black suits making sure no one else got into the graveyard. Them too.)

"I can't believe Mycroft didn't come." Mrs. Hudson half cried, half spat, "It's his own brother, his only brother…"

"I'm sure he's _very busy."_ John half consoled, half growled in agreement.

Everyone was wearing black, of course, but that didn't change the fact that it was bright and sunny day.

(Some would say that god had a sick sense of humor, but others would know that this might have been a _sign._)

Molly felt sick just being here, seeing John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade all look so sad.

Stanford, however, _didn't_ look sad (although he was_ trying _to) which is when Molly started to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

The morgue being 'closed' for 'training', Robert suddenly returning and then suddenly leaving, _the body that had been lowered into the ground…_

Stanford, the woman that worked for Sherlock's brother and probably Sherlock's brother, himself, were all involved somehow in faking the death.

And Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell Molly this…

…_or_ about the fake body…

"_You can't tell anyone about this, Molly. Not even John—especially not John."_

"_Why not? You might actually need his help." _

"_This is not the kind of war John is trained to fight. The people I am going after see people like John as expendable pawns. They'll kill without a second thought. And if they don't, they'll use him to get to me. Either to make me come out of hiding and come to them, or to get information about me. And John would happily jump into this danger to help me. I won't let him." _

"_Okay…" _

_But Molly had helped Sherlock, Molly knew Sherlock was alive. _

_What did that mean for her if the 'people' (whoever they were) Sherlock wanted to 'use' her?_

_Did Sherlock even care? _

"_After I die, you will affirm that a different body in the morgue is mine and do the autopsy on him as if he were me." _

"_Yes…but where will I get the spare body?" _

"_Oh, any John Doe will do, but I'd recommend one of two sniper victims. Unidentified and foreign, nobody cares if one of them 'disappears'. There won't be investigations into their deaths, anyway, I'm sure someone's already taken care of that…"_

…Molly sighed, to herself, as she stared at the reflective headstone.

Why would Sherlock have told her to use a John Doe as his corpse when he'd already had false likeness made?

Was it all just a distraction?

_Sherlock really hadn't trusted her… _

The 'funeral' was over now, there'd been no religious service or anything, nobody had even had any 'words' to say.

(John had made his final statement about his best friend Sherlock Holmes on his blog for the world to see. Afterwards, he wouldn't even mention him anymore.)

Molly regretted coming, she'd only done so because it would have seemed strange if she hadn't.

Thankfully, John and Mrs. Hudson were busy talking to Stanford and so Molly didn't have to face them.

And, _for once,_ she let Lestrade give her a ride back to work.

* * *

It had been years (more than twenty) since Sherlock had been to this residence and when he finally did return it was not to live, but just to visit.

"Hello, Mycroft." Sherlock greeted as he entered the townhome he had so dramatically exited years before with a slammed door.

It should have been sold, really, Sherlock was surprised Mycroft hadn't gotten ride of it, there was no reason to keep such a big place when only one person lived there—_except_ for the memories and the sentiment, of course.

…_Shame on you, Mycroft Holmes…_

Mycroft was standing by the window with his back turned, a cup of tea in his hand.

He'd known Sherlock was coming.

If he'd been surprised, he would have turned to face his brother.

He didn't.

"Good evening, Sherlock." Mycroft greeted.

"You missed the funeral." Sherlock stated.

"So did you." Mycroft reminded.

"I was busy."

"So was I."

Sherlock sat down on the coffee table (antique, of course, and it had never _once _held coffee) rather than on the couch, another chair or any other piece of furniture meant for sitting.

Mycroft hear the creak of old wood.

He was supposed to have turned around at this and told Sherlock how priceless and breakable the thing was and then to sit down properly somewhere else.

Instead, he just clenched his fingers around the teacup tighter.

"I suppose it was you responsible for the very convenient body double they put in the ground this afternoon." Sherlock assumed.

"You gave me Miss Adler's cellular phone and all her contacts." Mycroft responded, "After seeing what a fine job the surgeon had done on_ her _dead double—fine enough a job to fool us both—I couldn't let such a talented artist go to waste."

"And how much did that cost?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, enough for the man to escape and retire comfortably to one of the quieter Caribbean islands." Mycroft shrugged.

"I see..." Sherlock replied, not really believing Mycroft would_ ever_ just 'give away' such a valuable (human) '_resource', _"How did you know what would happen? How did you know that I was going to _'die'?" _

"Moriarty told me." Mycroft said, simply.

"And_ you _didn't tell _me."_ Sherlock returned.

"No, I didn't." Mycroft agreed, "But I did keep you safe, didn't I?"

"_I_ kept _myself _safe." Sherlock disagreed, "I kept myself alive. I didn't need _your _help. I had everything under control."

"Really?" Mycroft inquired, Sherlock couldn't see his face but knew he was raising an eyebrow, "And tell me, Sherlock, what would you have done if you'd jump and there didn't 'just happen' to be a trash truck driving by at that same moment."

"I organized that trash truck." Sherlock said, "The driver owed me a favor."

"The driver works for the government." Mycroft reminded, "He works for me."

"Well my homeless network doesn't." Sherlock countered, "And neither do the doctors at Bart's. They were the ones that distracted John. You really did_ nothing_—except allow this all to happen."

"I had no choice." Mycroft sighed, "It was part of the deal."

"What deal?" Sherlock asked and then quickly realized, "Oh. Your 'deal' with Moriarty? Trading _me _for his little keycode that you'd use to _rule the world _or whatever you government people do_?_ He was just playing you, Mycroft. Don't be stupid. There never _was_ any code! Moriarty just hired people to commit those crimes. And the digits he gave me…they were just music."

"Well, _of course_ that wasn't the keycode." Mycroft conceded, "It was far too short. _You_ may not be familiar with computer programming, but I have an employee who is. And just because Jim Moriarty isn't familiar with it either, doesn't mean there isn't a keycode at all. It just means he didn't _know_ it, he didn't _create _it."

"And I bet you know who _did."_Sherlock guessed.

"Yes." Mycroft said, turning around to smile at his brother, "I do. Do you?"

Sherlock laughed, standing up from the coffee table and then plopping down in Mycroft's armchair.

Mycroft sat down across from him on the smaller, unfavorite one.

He set his cup down on the table and so Sherlock propped his feet up on it.

Sherlock was hoping for an annoyed grumble or at least a facial expression and so Mycroft continued to smile.

"Yes." Sherlock said, smiling back, "James Moriarty. There were two of them. Brothers. Just like the two of us."

"Actually," Mycroft corrected, "There were three, once…now there is only one."

"How sad." Sherlock lamented.

"Tragic." Mycroft agreed.

"What's 'tragic' is how long it took you to figure it out," Sherlock chuckled, "having been friends the man for years."

"James and I were never 'friends'." Mycroft countered, "We knew each other for one year in university and barely spoke after that. He quit business, gave up money and power to become a teacher at a small, unprestigious school. I had no reason to suspect someone like _that,_ to even _think _about someone like that at all…The only reason I saw him again was because we just happened to attend the same meeting._ Anyway_, I'm surprised you remember anything at all from that time, let alone the tutor of the math lessons you liked to skip, seeing as how you spent it under the influence."

"That's my excuse for not realizing the connection sooner." Sherlock admitted, "What's yours?"

"Well what's your excuse for not realizing Miss Hooper, who you so cruelly spurned, had taken up with your enemy sooner?" Mycroft returned, "Or have you even figured that out yet?"

Mycroft searched Sherlock's face for a sign of recognition…or shock.

There was neither, there was _nothing._

"Those are two different things." Sherlock deflected, "Two different people. I had no reason to suspect—"

"Yes you did, if you'd considered it. You knew Miss Hooper had dated Moriarty—"

"They didn't 'date'. He was just using her."

"Yes, he was… But she knew his _name,_ she'd seen his _face._ He had no problem killing others for much less and her murder definitely would have…_affected _you—even if only very slightly. So why _didn't_ he kill her when he was finished with her?"

"…Because…because he_ hadn't_ 'finished with her' yet."

"_Exactly." _

Now Sherlock realized why Mycroft was smiling one of his rare,_ real_ smiles.

The smug bastard.

If he was going to feel stupid, he just_ had_ to make his little brother feel _even stupider_, didn't he?

"Why didn't you _do_ anything about it?" Sherlock demanded, suddenly, "You didn't _tell_ me, you didn't take her into custody—you didn't take _him_ into custody."

"I did, actually." Mycroft replied, "I had Jim Moriarty in custody for two weeks. Then I let him go."

"So you could have your 'all-powerful' keycode." Sherlock finished _"Of course."_

"And do you know where he went right after I set him free?" Mycroft inquired.

"Straight to Molly Hooper, I presume." Sherlock presumed.

"_Yes."_ Mycroft confirmed, "And while he was busy with _her,_ he wasn't 'bothering' _you._ She was a convenient distraction."

"You could have told me." Sherlock muttered.

"What, and have you burst in on them in bed together?" Mycroft scoffed, "Then all of Moriarty's attention would be focused on you again. I was _trying_ to keep you _safe,_ Sherlock."

"And you've done a wonderful job of it, too, _Mycroft."_ Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft could hear the bitterness in his voice and even see it, in little glimpses of microexpressions, on his face.

"…Don't tell me…" he started, "…do you feel _betrayed,_ Sherlock? Do you feel _hurt?"_

"Should I?" Sherlock snorted, "You were always the one who pretended to care about _me._ Perhaps I'm offended that you're not putting in as much _effort_ anymore."

"It was never pretending." Mycroft asserted.

And Sherlock _did_ roll his eyes.

"You would be stupid enough to begin to believe your own lies, wouldn't you?" Sherlock sneered.

"You wouldn't have come here if you didn't care." Mycroft stated, plainly, "Now you've dressed this visit up as a confrontation…but I know why you're really here."

"Oh?"

"You need my help."

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"You _do,_ Sherlock. You may not _want _it, but you n_eed_ it. And I know you'll never _ask _me for it and so I'm going to _offer_ it."

"And _I'm_ going to refuse."

Mycroft sighed.

The look of exasperation and annoyance towards Sherlock was enough for Sherlock to declare a small victory in this game.

(He'd won another battle against his dear brother, but, as always, the_ war _would continue.)

Sherlock smirked.

"Why would you help me?" he asked, eagerly anticipating Mycroft's inevitable answer.

"Because we're brothers." Mycroft answered, knowing when he was beaten, "And we're on the same side."

"Oh, of course." Sherlock accepted.

And Mycroft smiled.

Now Sherlock realized why Mycroft was smiling one of his rare, _real_ smiles.

The smug bastard.

He'd finally gotten Sherlock to accept his help and admit he needed him.

So the two brothers laughed.

* * *

Jim and Molly both awoke with a start when they heard the creak open in the middle of the night.

Clever Molly had brought herself a pillow to sleep with this night to sleep in the morgue from home (and also one for Jim, too, how kind of her) and she had it propped up against the bottom of the metal table Jim lay upon.

She was curled up, hugging it (a substitute for someone, perhaps?) when noise made her eyes fly open and be filled with darkness.

Molly had checked multiple times (obsessive compulsively) to make sure all doors to this room were locked and she didn't think that anyone else had a key.

She jumped up, bumping her head on the table as she rose and hissing in pain.

"Who's there?" She called into the dark room.

Her vision was not yet adjusted but the room was slowly becoming visible.

Four figures had crept into the room.

One of them grabbed her from behind before she could see him coming.

"Where's Sherlock Holmes?" he demanded.

"They buried him!" Molly cried, "Let me go!"

"No!" the man roared, "We needed him!"

"_Well, I'm sorry." _Molly muttered, struggling to get free.

"Hey look!" another voice shouted.

"What?" A third responded.

"I found Jim Moriarty…." The second declared, "…and he's alive."

"Interesting." the third commented, "She'll like this..."

Molly's stomach sank.

_Whoever these people were_…now they _knew._

_They knew. _

Molly saw the man standing by Jim's table, gazing down intently at Jim, and then tried to turn around and see the man she was trying to get away from.

The group of four were all wearing black ski masks, but white uniforms.

"Morning, sunshine." Jim the masked man above him.

"Who are you people?" Molly asked, "What do you want?"

"They're not going to tell us." Jim laughed.

"Take them both." A fourth voice commanded.

And then Molly felt herself falling back asleep…

* * *

**Yeah lol Robert is Chris Hemsworth. Tumblr has gotten to me and Tom Hiddleston has gotten on my nerves lol. And I don't even watch/read Marvel! **

**And I know the Caribbean and South America are different places. Robert's probably dead.  
**

**But guess who kidnapped Jim and Molly. **


	3. Dark Matters

**Not much to say today...****  
**

**Does anyone even read these things anyway, lol?  
**

**I ramble on too much...**

**I'll try to keep these things short.  
**

**Not doing a good job just yet...  
**

**Dramatic title, yeah I know lol, but I can't help the pun.  
**

**Anyway, it'll make sense in context so don't worry :)  
**

* * *

"I could have killed you in your sleep, you know."

Molly opened her eyes, with all the flutter and fuzziness of waking up after being knocked out.

How Jim had known she was awake, though, in this darkness Molly did not know.

Nor did she know where _he_ was—or where they _were._

She could see nothing, nothing but blackness.

She didn't even know how small or how large the room they were in was.

_No._

It _wasn't_ a 'room'.

They were _moving._

This was a _vehicle._

Molly felt the steady hum of a car (or truck or train or maybe even an airplane—no not a plane, there wasn't a pressure change) from the floor beneath her and felt the only very occasional jolt.

Then she heard movement again.

_Jim_ could _move._

"But that wouldn't have been much fun, now would it?"

Molly heard his voice again, coming from a different direction this time.

Not only was Jim able to move, he was moving around.

He couldn't see _either _and he didn't know where she was, Molly realized.

He probably had just woken up recently as well, maybe only _minutes_ before her.

"You can't kill me if you can't find me." she told him.

Molly heard movement again.

"Found you." Jim whispered into her ear.

And it was her fault, really.

She shouldn't have said anything.

If she'd known basically where he was based on the sound of his voice, then he'd do the same—and do it _better._

"Are you going to kill me?" Molly asked.

"Not yet." Jim answered.

He leaned back against something—the wall, probably—next to her and stretched out his legs.

Molly felt something tap her leg and so she sat up to sit against the something—probably the wall—that Jim was, next to him.

"Where are we?" she inquired.

"In the back of a truck," he said, "getting further and further away from London."

"You know who took us." Molly suspected.

"No I don't." Jim denied.

"It was probably your brother." Molly reasoned.

"I think he has bigger things to worry about than little old me—and you." Jim dismissed.

"…um…Mycroft Holmes then." Molly guessed, "Sherlock's brother."

"As far as I know Mycroft thinks I'm dead." Jim reminded, "…unless, of course, _you_ told him otherwise."

"No! I didn't! I would never!"

"I know that, darling, I trust you."

Jim gave Molly a 'comforting' pat on the knee that made her shudder.

"Who do you think would have done this, then?"

"Nobody we know…and nobody that knows us. You heard what they said right before they took us. They didn't expect to see anybody _alive_ down there in the morgue—let alone _me,_ of all people. They wanted _Sherlock."_

"…Oh…right… well, I wasn't really paying attention to what they were saying. I was more preoccupied with what they were _doing."_

Jim laughed.

"A common mistake _you people_ tend to make. Sometimes I forget how stupid—"

"I'm not stupid! I _did _listen! I…I heard him say '_she'._ 'She'll like this'. That means whoever they are, they're working for a woman."

"Very good, Molly. There may be hope for you yet. Anything else you can _extrapolate_ from those words?"

Molly held her breath as she thought so hard her head hurt (or maybe that was just the residual headache from being unconscious via a blow to the back of her skull).

She released it when she could think of nothing.

"…no…"

Jim laughed again but it was much more bitter and mocking this time.

"Good try though, then." He chuckled, " 'A' for effort."

"Oh, like you could do any better!" Molly snapped, regretting the words the instant they'd come out so much that she brought her hands up to cover her mouth.

Now Jim's laugh was _happy_ again (still mocking, though, of course).

Molly thought his shark teeth should have glinted in the dark when he grinned.

They didn't but she knew had had to smirking.

"Couldn't I, though?" he smiled, "They said _'she'll like this'_…and then they took us _alive._ They'd come to steal a dead body but left with two_ live_ specimens. Either they're_ afraid_ to kill—_unlikely,_ because of their comfort around the corpses in the morgue—or they'd actually _prefer_ a living body. Any guesses as to which one's right?"

"…no."

"No? Oh come on—"

"No. I'm…_comfortable_ with the dead but I'd _never _kill. So I_ can't_ choose one of the other."

"Good. Because it's both."

"Both?"

"The people who took us are _inexperienced._ They weren't prepared to capture living people and only did because they couldn't find who they were looking for and didn't want to_ disappoint_ their boss—this _mysterious woman_ you 'deduced' that they work for."

"How do you know they're inexperienced?"

"Easy. They didn't tie us up."

"Oh…but they knew how to knock us out. Isn't that experience?"

Jim was quiet for a moment.

This was something he hadn't considered.

Good thing _Molly_ had.

And_ why_ had Molly thought of this when _he_ hadn't?

"Medical training." Jim decided, "They had the anatomical knowledge of where to strike a person in order to force an impromptu nap."

"Do you think they could work for the hospital?" Molly wondered.

"No. If they did, then they would have known Sherlock had been buried already."

"Why did they even want him? And why do they want _us?"_

"They took _me_ because they wanted _him._ They know who I am and they decided I was next best thing—I'll soon show them I'm even better. They took _you _because you were _there."_

Molly sighed.

(He hadn't answered her question.)

"…I knew _that._ What I mean is…_why._ Why take anyone at all? What are they going to_ do_ to us?"

Jim smiled.

(He liked this question better.)

"My guess is…they want something to _play_ _with_—or, at least, their_ bosslady_ does. And living, breathing pets are always more fun than lifeless dolls."

As abstract and metaphorical as that was, Molly knew that Jim was probably right.

They'd been kidnapped and soon terrible things were going to happen to them.

(Just like those horror stories told to children by parents about men in vans with candy.)

And it was _worse,_ too, not knowing exactly just _what_ they would be.

Just sitting there in the dark, thinking of all the _possibilities…_

(Maybe_ this_ was what it was like to be Jim…except Molly didn't _enjoy _contemplating all the _things_ that people could do to people (and she probably wasn't as _good _at it, either.))

She shivered, again.

"Cold?" Jim asked.

He put an arm around her before she could answer and pulled her close.

Anything that anyone else could do to her, Jim could do worse (better) and Molly knew this well.

But he was warm.

And maybe _he_ was scared too.

After all, whatever they (whoever '_they' _were) were going to do to her, they were going to do to_ him_ too (and probably do worse, also, since they _had _originally wanted Sherlock and Jim was the 'next best thing').

They were in this (whatever _'it'_ was) together, even Jim must have realized this.

Molly hoped that meant he was _postponing_ any plans he might have had to exact his _revenge_ against her for saving his life.

"Who do you think they are?" Molly said.

She'd only spoken to keep the room—no, the back of the vehicle—from getting uncomfortably quiet.

She knew that if Jim knew who had captured them he would have both said_ and _done something about it by now.

At the moment he didn't have enough information to act.

"I don't know." Jim admitted, "But I can't _wait _to meet the lady in charge."

"…yeah, uh…me too." Molly attempted, unconvincingly.

'A' for effort, indeed.

Jim sort of chuckled, under his breath, as half-heartedly as her statement had been.

After that, a long silence was a dangerous possibility.

"We should pass the time, somehow," Molly began, "until we get to…wherever we're going. Keep our minds off it…"

"I'd say 'I spy'…" Jim replied, "but we can't see anything in here."

"Well, we could, um…talk or something…" Molly suggested, then quickly adding, "Unless you need it to be quiet. So you can think."

"There's nothing to think about…" Jim grumbled.

"…oh…"

"But that doesn't mean there's nothing to talk about. Let's talk."

"Okay!...what do you want to talk about?"

"You're asking me? It was your idea to talk."

"You're better at conversation."

"I _am_…So I'm going to make_ you_ practice."

"…Practice?"

"Yes. _Practice._ I want you to tell me your life story."

Molly actually laughed at this, although it was forced.

"There's nothing to tell! I haven't lived very interesting life…as you probably know since I know you looked me up. You probably know everything about me."

"Names, dates, places…that's not a story. That's a_ phonebook_—and nobody even _uses_ those anymore!...I want a _story,_ Molly, and _you're_ going to tell me one."

Molly sighed.

"…Well, a story's not always the same thing as the truth."

"No, it's not."

Jim was smiling, although Molly couldn't see.

(He liked where she was going with this _'not' 'truth'_ thing. He hoped it was somewhere _good._ Better than wherever they were headed to at the moment.)

Molly was smiling too.

"So if I told you things, stories…would you be able to tell me which ones were true and which ones were lies?"

"Is that a challenge?"

"…It could be a game…maybe…?"

"I like games. I like stories. They make long car rides _much_ less boring."

"Alright, then. I'll tell you my 'life story'…and you'll tell me if it's true."

* * *

Once upon a time there was man who worked hard in the factory everyday until finally the cancer pushed him down so he couldn't stand up again.

That man was my father.

And he was too young to die.

But they always are.

Even the oldest person on earth is always too young to die.

And it didn't matter, he was going to die and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

It was sad.

But it _always_ is.

My father loved life.

And he hated—really _hated_ to be stuck in bed, just lying there, unable to truly _live._

But he never once complained.

Because my father loved life—in any form his happened to take.

He loved life…

…but_ love_ doesn't necessarily mean _happiness,_ though.

Love is often a very painful thing and a love of life is no different.

And so although my father was sad, and we were _all _sad, he still loved his life and couldn't hate it despite what it was doing to him.

Making him die.

He believed that a love of life is inherent to all mankind and is what keeps all of us alive.

It takes an unholy, almost impossible, power to suck it out of someone.

_This_ is what my father believed.

This is what my father _knew._

He was sort of wasted as a factory-worker, you see, he was very smart.

He should've been a philosopher…or a _doctor._

He'd always wanted to be a doctor.

Maybe that was why, of all people, he chose to tell this secret to a doctor.

—or maybe the doctor was just _there_ and it was _convenient._

Anyway, my father told his doctor all about his life…

…and all about his love of life, despite it leaving him bedridden and only a breath away from death.

And the doctor _listened._

For a moment, then, my father was happy again.

But only for a moment.

After that, the doctor politely reminded him how our family just didn't have the money to continue caring for him.

The bills had been piling up for years, even before they found the tumor.

And now there was just really no logical reason to keep spending the money on keeping my father alive when he was going to die and there was nothing anybody could do about it.

Even hospice, even home care...all the medicines, the hospital visits, the doctor's house calls…

…a wife, three children…

…it was all just _too expensive._

So one more time, my father asked his doctor for help.

And my father _loved_ life, he really, really did.

But still he chose to die.

* * *

"Sacrificing his life for his family…how noble." Jim commented.

Molly couldn't see his face in the dark but from the tone of his voice is sounded as if he was at least _trying_ to be sincere.

'A' for effort, Jim.

"Yes," Molly agreed, "He was."

"But how do you know what happened?" Jim asked.

"…I wasn't _supposed_ to." Molly admitted, "My father didn't want any of us to know. He waited until we were all out of the house to…have it _done…_I came home early. I heard the whole conversation. I…I saw the whole thing. They never even noticed I was there…"

Jim was silent for a respectful, but short amount of time before he spoke.

"Tell another." He said.

* * *

Okay.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful woman.

She loved to be beautiful and everybody loved her.

She was happy.

She was my mother.

My father fell in love with her and she fell in love with him and they got married.

They weren't _rich,_ they weren't _educated…_

…but they were _happy._

And that's what matters, isn't it?

And she was beautiful.

Even when she got fat.

She had an excuse for that, though—she was pregnant.

Soon my mother gave birth to a baby boy.

He was beautiful too, yes, because all babies are…

…but boys and men don't _need_ to be beautiful to be happy.

Girls and women, however, _do._

Because beauty is often the only light that ever draws the moths of love to us women—the_ beautiful_ ones, anyway.

And _love,_ of course, is what makes people _happy._

And being happy is what matters, isn't it?

They _were _happy, my parents and their beautiful boy who they loved.

And my mother was still beautiful.

But then she got fat again.

She didn't want to this time, she was getting _old._

My father didn't want her to, either, he was getting _sick._

And although they didn't have the money for another child, and they weren't Catholic or religious at all…

…they still chose to be unhappy.

Because they _loved._

Oh, how they loved; don't ever think my parents didn't love me.

Their for me and my brother love was _'infinite and expanding, just like this universe'_ my father said.

He said things like that.

And my mother, she screamed.

She screamed in pain and I cried because it takes pain to bring a life into this painful world.

Now they have medicine, that though…

The doctors asked my mother, after I was born but while my father was still outside in the waiting room, why her second child was so small and premature.

She said nothing and then she and my father took me home.

And they loved me

But my mother wasn't happy, she thought she wasn't beautiful anymore.

And my father was never home, working harder even as he got sicker.

From the outside, of course, our family looked perfect, beautiful, _happy…_

A breadwinning father and a stay-at-home mother.

A little boy and a little girl.

My brother saw through it.

He was always smart, like my father.

He knew better to be happy.

But I didn't.

And so I was.

I was.

* * *

"What happened to your mother?" Jim inquired, innocently.

"She died." Molly answered, "You know she died."

"Why?"

"It wasn't suicide if that's what you're implying."

"I wasn't."

"…We were poor. Sometimes my mother would skip meals, so the rest of us would have more to eat. Unhealthy diet…"

Jim didn't know whether he should have laughed at that.

Molly had a strange sense of humor, sometimes, maybe she was making a joke.

…Or maybe she was _lying. _

"Both of these stories were about death." he stated, evenly.

"I'm sorry." Molly hiccupped—it was sort of a choke and a laugh—, "I don't mean to be so morbid, it's just…all I think about, I guess…"

"Me too," Jim laughed, "…and Sherlock Holmes. Course now it's the same thing."

"Yeah…" Molly said, sadly.

(Forced sadness?)

(Lying?)

"…or is it?" Jim tried.

But it was much harder to tell if someone was lying in the dark than when he could see their face.

"All life has death in it," Molly reasoned, ignoring his comment, "so all life stories are really death stories, too."

It was the kind of sentiment she thought Jim would appreciate.

And he _did _appreciate it, or at least _acted_ like he did.

Molly never really knew with Jim and the nicer he was to her, the more suspicious of him she became.

Was he _lying?_

_She_ was.

(At least about _some _things, anyway—but what things were _he_ lying about? _Everything?) _

And her lies so far had earned her a kiss on the cheek.

"But I want to hear your life story." Jim said, "Not your parents'."

"Well mine's not as interesting…" Molly complained (—but _was_ it a complaint? _was_ it a lie?).

"We're in a black box going nowhere with nothing better to do." Jim reminded, "Anything is more interesting than _that."_

Even Molly Hooper.

* * *

Even me.

Once upon a time I was more interesting to someone interesting than every other person waiting patiently in the room.

We, about twenty of us, were gathered down in the morgue at St. Bartholomew's.

It was my first time down there.

We were just students then, waiting for our instructor to arrive and do the demonstration of an autopsy.

He was a late and so we all were just milling about talking amongst ourselves—or, at least they were.

I was standing over towards the corner, shy as always.

I'd been the first one there that morning and so everybody else had come in with friends, I didn't want to intrude onto their conversations and they didn't want to intrude on the strange girl standing in the corner of the morgue.

Or maybe they just didn't notice me…

So I was being quiet already when everybody else got quiet.

At first I thought that the instructor had finally arrived, but he hadn't and instead everyone was just listening to a student tell a story.

"So there was this professor who told his students that there were two rules to being a good doctor. The first was to never to be disgusted by anything _human. _Even _death_…and even _shit._ And so then he takes his finger and sticks it up the ass of a corpse! Really, he did and all his students were just standing there like all of you, staring in shock, some of them laughing…"

(He was describing all of us in the room.)

"…but that wasn't enough for him because then he brought his finger up to his mouth and licked it. He licked it! _'Now'_ he told his class, 'every single one of you has got to do the same'…and so they _did_—well, the ones who didn't walk out, anyway—and when they were all through, the professor said, 'the second rule to being a good doctor is that you've got to be observant. You all did great on the first rule, but if you want to master the second one you'll need to practice. Because if any of you were observant already, you would've seen that I used two different fingers'."

Everyone laughed at that, even me.

I'm sorry if I'm not doing the story justice, it was really funny when _he_ told it.

Anyway, everyone was laughing when two older students, graduates probably, came into the room.

I don't remember their names or faces, this was the only time I ever saw them.

"Hemsworth, stop messing with the new students!" one of them snapped, "Don't you have something better to do?"

"Don't you?" Robert returned (—his name was Robert, by the way. Yes, _that _Robert. I assumed you'd figured that out by now), "Or do you just enjoy telling people what to do? You'll be a teacher one day, Stanford, as strict as you are."

"I doubt that." Stanford scoffed, "And you really need to leave because the real teacher'll be coming soon."

"Hey," Robert laughed, turning away from Stanford to address all of us first-year students but still gesturing towards him, "Maybe he's got a finger up his ass, too! Just like that corpse!"

And so we all laughed, too.

Stanford didn't, of course, but his friend did—only a little, with a cough to cover it up.

"Shut up, John." Stanford muttered, glaring at him and then glaring at Robert, "You too."

Robert continued to laugh.

This time it was John who addressed the class.

"Let me just tell you all, that story's not true. You don't have to worry about that."

We weren't really worried, but he didn't think we were. He was just trying to diffuse the situation.

"You loved it though, Watson, I know you did." Robert baited, "I saw you trying not to laugh."

John sighed.

"You need to leave," he warned, sympathetic but stern, "you really do. You're not supposed to be here and you'll end up getting kicked out if the instructor sees you."

"Oh!" Robert exclaimed, "We have a future soldier here! Somebody who likes to have fun but forfeits his happiness—and everybody else's down here—to duty."

"Whatever, 'fortuneteller'" John shrugged, "Do you know what I predict? I predict you're going to leave the morgue right now before I have to call security."

"See?" Robert grinned as he strolled out of the room, "Anybody can be psychic."

Once he was gone, John and Stanford decided it was safe for them to leave as well, now that their job of getting rid of Rob was done.

Of course, it really _wasn't _safe because once _they_ were gone, Robert came right back.

This time, he came through back door, towards the edge of the crowd of student, near where_ I_ was.

Somehow, he saw me there in that corner and said, "Hello".

"Hello." I greeted, trying to smile even though I had jumped in surprise as he'd come up behind.

I turned around to face him and he was smiling too.

"My name's Rob." He stated, already extending a hand, "What's yours?"

"Molly." I told him, shaking his hand as best I could.

My handshake has always been weak.

He didn't seem to care, or if he did he didn't say anything.

"You weren't talking to anybody so I thought I'd fix that." Robert explained.

"Thanks." I thanked.

I wanted to say something else, but I couldn't think of anything intelligent or funny so I stayed quiet.

I was never good at talking…but you already know that, don't you?

"The story_ was _a lie, by the way." Robert confirmed, to start a conversation.

"Yeah, I know." I nodded, "I heard that joke before."

And I really had, too. It was still funny, though, when _he_ told it.

"I've only been here a year," Rob laughed, "but I've had a good bit of fun with that one."

"Those two didn't look like they were having fun with it." I acknowledged, referring to the two older students who had left.

"Well they're going to graduate soon, anyway" Robert declared, happily—but not happy for the success of his fellow students, just happy that he wouldn't have to see them again, "so we don't have to worry about them, do we?"

" '_We'?"_ I repeated, carefully.

Such a small word with so many different meanings.

"I was assuming you wouldn't change your mind and dropout." Robert reasoned, "Like so many other weak stomachs we get around here."

"I won't." I affirmed.

At this point, the instructor came in.

Finally.

He was wheeling in a metal table with a cadaver on it.

He didn't announce himself as he entered and so some students were surprised to see him—and the dead body.

So surprised that they had to run out into the hallway, clutching their stomachs.

I stayed in the room.

With Rob.

"Stomach feeling weak yet?" he asked me, once the instructor had cut open the corpse.

Poetically enough, the instructor was removing the stomach from the body.

"No." I answered.

"It's okay to admit you're feeling a little queasy." Robert reminded, "Everybody gets nervous their first time."

"It doesn't bother me." I shrugged.

"Then it's not your first time." Robert concluded, with a grin.

"No, it's not." I said.

And even though it wasn't the first time I'd seen a dead body, I still learned a lot that first day of training at Bart's.

For example:

I learned that Rob had the perfect kind of studio apartment, clean and modern looking, to impress women much harder to please than me.

And that he was kind of perfect, too, charming and funny and beautiful…

And that by the next week of classes he'd found a new girl to be charming, funny, beautiful and perfect to and take back to his perfect kind of studio apartment.

And that even though he had that didn't mean he didn't call me every once and a while.

…and that didn't mean that I didn't answer those calls…

Even though it really should have.

* * *

"Where is this 'Rob' and how should I kill him?" Jim questioned in gallant defense of Molly's feelings and honor.

"I don't know where he is." Molly answered, mostly truthfully.

She'd been sad when Robert had left the first time, so many years ago, sad but _relieved._

And she was relieved again once he was _gone._

(Especially because he had been hired by Mycroft Holmes's employee (whatever that woman's name was), probably to do some sort of strange plastic surgery on a dead body to make it look like Sherlock.)

"Keep it that way." Jim told her.

Well since she was planning to anyway, Molly didn't know what to say to that ('yes, sir, I will' and 'no, thank you, I won't' both causing their own internal and external dilemmas) and so she said nothing.

Then the silence in the dark returned.

This bothered Jim more than Molly, this time, and she felt him try to stand up.

He sat back down when he bumped his head against the roof of whatever kind of vehicle this was.

"Any ideas?" she attempted, hopefully, assuming that he must have thought of _something_ by now.  
_  
Sherlock_ would have.

"No." Jim replied shortly.

"Oh." Molly sighed.

Silence again, for a few long seconds.

"You have to keep talking!" Jim snapped.

Molly couldn't see him but he was shaking her by the shoulders, a little too sharply, and she had to grab him by the arms so she wouldn't get the back of her head bashed into the wall behind her (she already_ had_ a headache and definitely did_ not_ need another).

"Why!" Molly exclaimed, freeing herself from Jim's grasping to crawl over to a corner where she hoped he wouldn't find her.

"Because_ you_ need the practice and_ I _need the _distraction!"_ he shouted but then calmed himself, adding coolly, "…dead girls don't talk. I could make you one of _those_ if you'd prefer to be _quiet._ I'm sure t_hat _would distract me just as well as the sound of your voice."

He'd said it from what was probably the opposite corner of the room—back of the vehicle—and although Molly didn't like to respond to threats or taunts, she knew she had to say something.

"We should make a plan." She suggested, "For when they come back to get us and bring us out of here. We could surprise them or something."

"Yeah, it _would_ be a 'surprise'…" Jim mused, "checking the trunk of your car and having some headless dead woman roll out…"

Molly ignored that.

It was an empty threat, anyway.

What, was he going to pull her head off with his bare hands?

"They did take us alive…" Molly considered, "What if we, like 'played dead', or something? That might confuse them long enough for us to escape."

"I'm not _trying_ to escape." Jim declared, "I told you, I want to meet whoever's in charge. I want her to do to me whatever she was_ going_ to do to Sherlock."

"…Well then you'd have to be _dead."_Molly reminded.

"I'm _supposed_ to be..." Jim reminded.

_Silence, silence, silence. _

_Darkness, darkness, darkness._

Molly missed her cat and warm cup of coffee.

Jim missed Sherlock Holmes.

"…Irene Adler." Molly stated.

Jim looked up.

But of course he couldn't actually see Molly (or the woman she had mentioned).

"What about her?"

"What if it was _her?_ What if _she _hired the people that tried to take Sherlock's body and took us instead? You said that she was, well…_'interested'_ in Sherlock…"

Jim chuckled, shaking his head.

It was cute when Molly tried to think.

'A' for effort.

"Adler would never hire such incompetent people." Jim dismissed, "How did you come up with that idea anyway?"

"I don't know…" Molly said, "I was just thinking…"

(She didn't want to explain that it was_ Robert_ that had given her the idea.

If he'd made a fake dead Sherlock then he was probably the same one who'd made a fake dead Irene Adler last December.)

And Jim decided to believe her…_for now._

(Rules always changed when you were locked in a dark room with somebody. Even plans to kill them were put on hold.)

But what would _Sherlock_ do?

"…_what would Sherlock do?"_ Jim muttered.

It _sounded _like it was more to himself than to Molly, but it was meant for her to hear so she would start _thinking_ again.

"Sherlock would probably be able to tell how fast this truck is moving," Molly guessed, "based on the vibrations and then figure out how far away we are from where we started using that and how long we've been driving. I think it's been over two hours, at least, if that helps, we've been awake for one…"

"_Yes_ and we've been going in the same direction all that time, at generally the same speed." Jim added, "We haven't made any sharp turns and there haven't been any bumps. We must be on a highway. Professional kidnappers would drive the speedlimit so as not to attract attention…but these people _aren't _professionals, as we've already established. They're _nervous _and they're driving faster and in an area deserted enough that they wouldn't be pulled over for it. And we haven't stopped for gas, so wherever we're going is less than a tank away from where they came from since they would have been in too much of a hurry and too afraid of being caught with live cargo to fill up back in London. So we can't have gone too far from the city yet, either."

"Amazing." Molly commented, (just like she was supposed to have—she knew her lines, she knew her part as small as it was).

Jim grinned.

He loved playing Sherlock.

He wondered if she noticed the diction, speaking space and accent change…

So often much of the beautiful subtlest of his art was lost on lesser eyes that only saw what was right in front of them, taking it at face value alone.

One day, brilliant artist Jim would find finally find someone who appreciated—

"…_Sherlock."_ Molly added, with a giggle.

"Doesn't tell us anything, though." Jim grumbled, "I still don't know where we're going."

"Sherlock wouldn't have either." Molly consoled.

_But wouldn't he have?_

"Yes, he would have." Jim scoffed, bitterly, "He'd take advantage of the dark to feel up the car a bit and then be able to tell what model it is. _Then_ he'd calculated how far we'd traveled based the amount of gas the tank holds and the speed. _And then_ the computer would generate a list of all the possible places within that distance in the greater London area. And then he'd figured out which one we were headed to."

"Well, you could try to do that—"

"I don't think like that!...Sherlock, he works with _things._ Actions, details; the physical, the _tangible!..._Me? _I_ work with _minds._ I see who people _are,_ what they've _done._ I know how they _think _and so I know what they'll _do_…but _here,_ in the _dark,_ I can't see _anything!_ I can't _do_ anything…"

There are many solutions to solving the same problem.

And there are many problems that can be solved with the same solution.

Molly imagined (or at least_ tried_ to) the completely different but equally brilliant solutions Sherlock and Jim would come up with if given the same problem.

"But you'll meet the people who took us." Molly said, "And when you do, well…you can do what you do. And they'll regret ever meeting Jim Moriarty."

She was smiling, even though Jim couldn't see her.

Molly realized now that _helpless_ was not a feeling Jim enjoyed. _At all._ And there would be hell to pay for anyone who made him feel that way.

Molly wondered when the devil would come to collect from _her _for what she had done to him_._

(And it didn't matter, of course, that _'helpless' _was a state that simply being around Jim induced in Molly—even when he didn't actively_ try _to make her feel that way.)

She hoped Jim was smiling to, even though she couldn't see him.

"Doesn't everyone?" Jim chuckled.

"_You_ read people," Molly replied, "You tell me."

Because she certainly didn't know the answer for 'everyone', let alone _herself. _

"No, _you_ tell _me."_ Jim requested, "…another story."

Molly sighed.

She was all out of poignant memories and poignant lies to tell him.

Closing her eyes (because she was in the dark anyway) and leaning her head back against the wall she attempted to conjure the story she'd heard when she was young (maybe at school, maybe from her father) that she'd suddenly remembered because of her current situation.

"Once upon a time…" Molly began, "there was king whose first wife, the only woman he'd ever truly loved, didn't love him back and instead loved another."

"Go on…" Jim coaxed.

"Because of this he became bitter and hateful," Molly continued, "…he became _insane._ He took a new wife each day at sundown, spent the night with her and then had her executed the next morning at sunrise."

"How?"

"Beheading."

"Ooh, interesting. _Go on…"_

"One day, as he did everyday, the king married a new wife. But that night his wife told him a story…a story that was so interesting it kept the king up all night just listening—"

"Must've been a pretty damn good story if that's _all_ they did."

Molly rolled her eyes and continued.

"…Although the wife talked all night, her story was still not complete by morning. And so the king did not have her executed like the wives before. He kept her _alive_…but only to finish the story."

"And _did she?_ Did she finish the story?"

Jim knew the answer to his question, of course.

He'd heard the story before, but it was so good when Molly told it.

"She_ did_…and then she started a_ new_ one that she didn't finish until the day after that, which she didn't finish until the day after _that._ And so the king's wife continued telling stories and the king continued listening to them and they were happy…But only so long as the stories stayed _interesting."_

Molly breathed in a way that indicated she had completed the story.

"The end?" Jim asked.

"There is no 'end'." Molly answered, "That's moral of the story, isn't it? That stories can't ever really _have_ 'endings'. That there's always _more_. Even after people _die._ As long as there's _someone_ still alive…"

"Scheherazade." Jim identified.

(Gesundheit.)

"…oh, right, that _is_ what it's called." Molly agreed, "I'd forgotten the name…"

"_Her_ name." Jim corrected, "…And I'd asked for _your_ life story, remember? That wasn't about _you."_

"Wasn't it, though?" Molly inquired, innocently teasing or hopelessly lamenting (or both).

"You think I'd _kill you_ if you got boring?" Jim questioned offendedly, "…Well, you're _right._ Smart thinking, there, my dear."

"The lies." Molly reminded, "Have you figured them out yet?"

"That's easy." Jim shrugged, "They were_ all_ true."

"_Yes_…" Molly affirmed, "…and no."

Jim raised an eyebrow but then remembered that Molly couldn't see him which meant he'd have to vocally acknowledge that he was confused.

_Damn it. _

"What do you mean?" Jim asked, suspiciously.

"_Well…"_ Molly took a deep breath, "All the stories about my lifewere true—_mostly_…I just changed some of the details. Those changes were the 'lies'."

"Cheater." Jim accused.

Molly guessed he was probably sticking out his tongue at her childishly.

"You said it was a game." Molly reasoned, "You never said I had to play fair."

Molly didn't believe this reasoning herself…but it was _Jim_ 'logic' and so she thought he would accept it.

He _didn't._

"_Tell me._ Which details did you change?"

"You're not going to guess?"

"But what about the game?"

"I don't play fair, either. Now tell me."

"Okay…"

* * *

_Well, first off…_that conversation with Robert never happened—at least not on the first day.

It took me almost four months to get him to notice me, and even then he was only _half-_interested.

And then my mother…well, she…she was always very beautiful…

But she was never happy.

She believed that all a woman needed to be happy was to be beautiful.

Because if she was beautiful, she'd find love, and if she found love she'd get married, and if she got married she'd have children, and she had children hen everything would be_ complete_…everything would be _perfect._

_And then_ she'd be happy.

But when all that happened and she wasn't happy…

When she was _so beautiful_ and she wasn't happy…

…she just didn't know what to do.

She'd tried so hard…and then she just gave up.

I can't really remember her well, but…one of the last things she said to me was to get an education, go to school.

I didn't understand it then, but my father explained it when I was older…

* * *

"And what about your father?" Jim asked, interrupting Molly's stream of consciousness.

"…what about him?" Molly asked, guardedly.

"What was the _lie?"_ Jim clarified, voice intent for an answer.

But before Molly could speak… whatever kind of vehicle they were in finally came to a stop, jolting both her and Jim forwards, backwards and then down to the floor (luckily, they hadn't been standing).

"We're here." Jim grinned as he sat up.

Somehow, even without her speaking, he knew where Molly was and pulled her up as well.

"…_oh god…"_ Molly murmured, as quietly as possible before she could stop herself.

They heard doors open, slam shut and then footsteps approach.

A click…

…and then light blinded them so used to the darkness.

Still unable to see at first, Jim and Molly squinted towards the bright opening where the door (or the hatch, whatever it was) had been.

They could see the silhouettes of people.

And then they could see that these people were pointing guns.

"Get out." One said.

"And put your hands up." Another added, hastily, "Try anything and we'll shoot."

Molly and Jim got out of the vehicle—which turned out to be a van—and stepped cautiously towards the four men in their white uniforms.

They no longer wore black ski masks but neither Molly nor Jim recognized their faces.

"Shoot?" Jim scoffed, "You barely know how to use those guns."

"Jim!" Molly hissed, glaring at him.

The last thing they needed was to live this long just to get killed because Jim took the wrong tone with these people.

"Shut up." The first man warned.

And so Jim asked, "Where are we?"

None of the four answered and so Jim gazed around the area.

They were in some sort of underground structure where other white vans as well as military vehicles were parked.

It was surprisingly, _blindingly_ well lit.

"You get her and you two get him." the man ordered, pointing to those he spoke to and then those he spoke _of, _"I'm going to go explain this to the boss."

The other three men nodded, still pointing guns at Jim and Molly.

But even Molly could see the relief and gratefulness of their faces that attempted remain neutral, they were glad they didn't have to make the explanation.

They were all _young,_ she realized, in their early twenties. _Only kids, really…_

The first man hurried away, past a couple cars and then through a door he had to put a code in just to get open.

Molly was beginning to think that Mycroft Holmes _did _have them captured and that this was some secret government facility.

(He had missed his brother's funeral, hadn't he? Maybe he didn't know the fake body had been buried and so sent his employees to pick it up before the evil traitor Molly Hooper figured out it wasn't real.)

Molly was too busy staring at the men with guns to notice that (the actually more dangerous one) Jim had leaned over to her to whisper.

"Quick." He said, dramatically, "Tell me now. Before they take us and we never see each other again. I have to know."

"Know what?" Molly asked, nervously because she knew she wasn't supposed to be talking.

"The lie." Jim answered, "What was the lie in the story about your father?"

And so Molly couldn't help but smile as two men grabbed Jim and one man grabbed her and pulled them away in separate directions because it really _should_ have been obvious.

"That's easy." she called to him, repeating his words from earlier, and "There was no doctor."

* * *

**Yep, well...yeah. **

**lol.  
**

**And Molly forgetting people's names as usual, luckily I was kind enough to write them in there anyway to make it convenient for readers.  
**

**lol again. ****  
**

**And now I'll just tell ya'll where they are if you haven't figured it out.  
**

**They're at Baskerville (white uniforms, bright lights, medical knowledge).****  
**

**So now you can easily guess who kidnapped them.  
**

**Things were going to get a little bit weird from here on out.  
**

**Just a little bit.  
**

**Please review!  
**


	4. Take Your Child to Work Day

**I'm sorry this took so long!**

**We lost power and so I had to go to my grandfather's house to be able to type this.**

**I'm typing on a laptop with shaky internet connection and I really don't like laptops and I hate shaky internet connections. **

**Please don't forget about my story!**

* * *

_Hi, Molly _

_I just stopped by the morgue and saw your not there. _

_Is today your day off? _

_If it is then I was wondering something…_

_-Greg_

* * *

Molly was unable to answer the text because she was currently being marched through some secret laboratory (?(!)) and had no clue where her phone was.

Before (or night, it might still be night—there were no windows) Molly had never believed in these sorts of places like the one she was in now and these sorts of things like the ones she was seeing…

…until, of course, John Watson had written about them in his blog, describing a military base located in Dartmoor that he had visited with Sherlock Holmes.

_Baskerville._

Now Molly really didn't know where she was, but the monkeys in the cages agreed that Baskerville was as good a guess as any.

"Where are you taking me?" Molly cried, "Where are we?"

The young man continued to lead her through the maze of long white hallways (empty other than them, at the moment), past locked rooms, turning left and right so many times that Molly had lost her sense of direction completely and wouldn't even know how to get back to the parking structure if she was able to escape.

She wondered if he had done that on purpose.

"Quiet down." The man warned.

His voice was harsh but also nervous.

He glanced around in all directions to make sure no one had heard.

Then he increased their pace, pushing Molly forward at an uncomfortable speed.

However, she didn't know where his gun was, but she didn't feel it against her.

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized, in a whisper, "…I'm just scared."

"…You shouldn't be." The man consoled, hesitantly at first, "I don't think she's going to do anything to you. You're not the one she wants."

"Who's 'she'?" Molly asked.

The young man didn't respond to this, realizing that he had already said too much.

They passed through three more doors before Molly tried to _'converse' _again.

"…Can you—are you allowed to tell me where I've been taken?" she asked, "Or are they making you keep it secret?"

'They'.

Whoever 'they' were, they were always right and so the man holding Molly captive was not responsible.

He was just following orders, this wasn't_ his_ fault.

And so he could feel_ sorry_ for Molly.

"They don't let the public know about this." The young man explained, "Even I don't know much. I just do what they tell me. I was lucky to get this job."

(That was definitely true. Someone so 'talkative' _was_ lucky to get a job that keeps secrets.)

"They make you do a lot of things you don't want to do, don't they?" Molly assumed, "…_bad _things…"

She stopped walking, despite the fact that _he_ was supposed to be leading _her,_ to turn around and face him.

The man hadn't been expecting this and so she recognized the short look of shock and even fear on his face when she did.

Quickly, it was gone though, transformed into anger as he pulled out the gun from his uniform pocket and pointed it at her.

Molly flinched at this.

He lowered it.

"I don't do anything wrong here." the man declared, "It's not like you think. We don't experiment on_ live _humans."

'_We'_ not 'they'.

This sad young man was more involved than he would like.

_And he felt guilty. _

"They don't?" Molly inquired, "…then what did you take _me_ for?"

"We didn't_ mean_ to!" the man explained, "All we wanted was a dead body! That's not hurting anyone. But Sherlock Holmes's body wasn't there and you and that man _were._ It wasn't _my_ idea, but there couldn't be any witnesses."

"So does that mean you're going to…"

Molly trailed off, looking down at the white tile of the floor.

"They won't kill you. We don't do that here. They'd never—"

"But what about Jim? What are they going to do to him? And what were they going to do to Sherlock?"

The man tensed, clutching his weapon tightly, then loosening his grip and sighing.

"…I don't know…" he said, weakly, "Really, I don't. They don't tell me anything. I just do what I'm told…"

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized, again, "I'm not blaming you. I know all you wanted was to get the body and you only did that because you thought nobody would be hurt."

"_Yes."_ the young man(—the _boy,_ really. only twenty _at most_ Molly guessed) accepted, "And_ I'm_ sorry."

"Your boss…" Molly began, "…will you take me to her?"

And the boy nodded.

* * *

…_I was wondering if you could maybe babysit my kids for a bit? _

_They're out of school and I've been watching them all week_

_I think I'm going to go crazy!_

_I need to get out of the house._

* * *

Jim was getting tired of being sedated and forced onto to tables.

_Very_ tired.

So tired, in fact, that he found himself falling asleep…

_No. _

Not again.

These guys were just kids (_kid_nappers indeed) who had captured him and Molly.

They had _no idea_ how to properly kidnap someone (let alone_ two_ someones (let alone two _alive_ someones) and_ Jim_ had no idea why Baskerville would hire such incompetent children.

(Yes, _of course_ it was Baskerville. If army vehicles, medical uniforms and scientific equipment weren't enough proof, then the monkeys in cages certainly were.)

The stupid kids had stupidly put down their guns on a nearby shelf so one could _try_ to force Jim down onto the table while the other _tried _to stick a needle in Jim's arm.

How stupid.

"Don't move!" the cuter of the two little boys warned, as he attempted to pin Jim to the table by his shoulders "It'll only make it worse!"

"I might like that." Jim commented.

He wasn't struggling _just yet_, but there were no restraints attached to the table (because it was meant to hold dead bodies that couldn't move).

"We'll see." The taller one stated as he readied the second needle, "This _may_ hurt a bit."

Jim would have said that this boy (young man of about twenty-one _(maybe)_) was ugly…

…until he sneered down at Jim while he was trying to be cruel.

_(Interesting. _This one actually_ liked_ his job. The other obviously _hated_ it.)

Jim recognized his voice—_he_ had been the in the morgue who had recognized Jim.

But before the second boy could inject the second dose of whatever sleep-inducing serum it was…

(Poor babies didn't have Jim's medical records. If they did they would have known that Jim had developed quite a high tolerance for sleeping and sedating medicines since he was fifteen ( —and that he was developing a tolerance for paralytics since last week…although that was probably over now.))

…Jim puckered his lips and lunged up towards the cute was that was being such a tease by holding him down against a table so seductively.

The boy jumped away from Jim, shouting as he tripped backwards, a look of _pure horror _on his face.

This allowed Jim to sit completely upright and in the split second that the second boy turned to look at the first, Jim was able to snatch the syringe away from the sneerer holding it.

Feeling bad about the theft, Jim then returned it to its original owner by jamming it into his neck _(Molly style_—much quicker delivery around the body).

"No!" the ugly man cried as he fell, gripping the table for support.

Jim released the table from his grip, one stupid finger at a time until the man crumpled to the tiled floor.

The cutie was still cowering in the corner because he did _not_ sign up for this.

He signed up for operating on corpses who didn't get hurt and couldn't hurt him.

He did _not _sign up for stealing corpses from morgues.

He did _not _sign up for kidnapping _living people_ from morgues.

And, _most importantly,_ he did _not_ sign up for _Jim Moriarty._

(And was _not _getting paid enough for this.)

Jim swung around to sit facing him, sneering the same way the sleeping boy had sneered at him earlier.

Jim wished there was a mirror so he could see how face looked trying out the expression.

Instead of a mirror, Jim was rewarded with the panic in the first young man's face.

He was too scared to move (other than shake) and too scared to _think._

If he'd been _smart _(or if he'd been Molly _(same thing?)_) he'd have seen all the many exciting and diverse medical tools in the room he could have used as weapons against Jim (not that any of them would have _worked)._

But he was stupid.

How stupid.

Jim stood up from the table.

That finally got the boy able to _move._

He sprung up and started to run towards the doors they'd come into the room through (being too afraid _(stupid)_ to care that the table Jim stood in front of _(and Jim Moriarty himself)_ stood between him and the exit he so desperately desired).

"Don't move." Jim echoed, "It'll only make it worse."

(Not) surprisingly enough, the boy stopped, frozen and shivering once again.

(It_ was_ kind of cold in here, after all, although not nearly as cold as the morgue and so the temperature didn't bother Jim at all and he had _no idea_ why it was bothering this young man so much—no tolerance for cold and fear, Jim finally decided.)

Jim blocked the door.

…which then made it impossible for him to see the people come up behind him or react to them in time.

And it was too late for Jim to do anything as he heard those doors swing open got knocked out from behind.

How stupid.

* * *

_It'll only be for a couple of hours, I promise!_

_I'll even PAY you! _

_I need a break, I'm serious!_

_Molly, please answer!_

* * *

Lestrade had only been on suspension for a week (for allowing a fraud 'consulting detective' to solve crimes the crimes that he had committed (for being 'a bloody idiot')) but he was already going insane.

And not out of grief at the death of his colleague (friend) Sherlock Holmes, although he was very sad…

…but because of those delightful little darlings (destructive little demons) that just happened to share half of his DNA.

Katherine and George.

And they were _bored._

"Dad, we're bored." Katherine whined (for the thousandth time).

"…I know…" Lestrade groaned, holding his head in his hands.

He knew that if he looked up his children would be staring at him with their deceptive wide-eyed cuteness and so he continued to sit on the couch of his living room, facing the floor…

…and his phone!

Quickly, Lestrade checked his cellphone (for the thousandth time).

Molly still hadn't replied.

Where was she?

What was she doing?

Even if this _was _her day off, it's not like she had a _social life_ or anything…

…_did she? _

(Although Lestrade wasn't one to talk. Being a detective was a full time job which left little free time for socializing…as was _parenting,_ it seemed, which Lestrade was discovering this week.)

"Daddy…." George pleaded, tugging at the sleeve of his father's shirt.

"I have a solution!" Lestrade declared, jumping up suddenly and causing his children to jump back away from him to avoid being stepped on.

"Tell us!" George requested, grinning instantly.

"This better be good…" Katherine grumbled, folding her arms rolling her eyes.

It was something she'd seen a pretty(sexy)woman she wanted to be like when she was grown up (wanted to be like right now)do on a television show that daddy didn't know mummy didn't allow the kids to watch.

It had Katherine and George quiet and had kept Lestrade sane for an afternoon of reruns.

And in exchange for that sane and quiet afternoon, Lestrade would forever lament that his daughter was far too much like her mother.

"We're going to go visit my friend Molly." Lestrade stated, triumphantly, "You'll like her. She has a pet cat you can play with."

"Does she teach at our school?" George asked.

"No, she works at the hospital." Lestrade answered, not explaining the gory details of Molly's career, and then asking "Why?"—

—_oh. _

The P.E. teacher his wife was apparently still 'friends' with.

Lestrade laughed awkwardly.

George opened his mouth to reply to his father but his sister jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow.

_Just like her mother and always on her mother's side,_ Lestrade sighed to himself.

And he had_ so_ wanted a daddy's girl to spoil…

He should have thought of that before accepting the time-monopolizing position as Detective Inspector—although with the way things were going now with Sherlock and the suspension, maybe he wouldn't have to worry about_ that_ anymore.

There was still time to win his daughter over.

"Does she have any lipstick?" Katherine inquired, more to interrupt her brother than to ask the question (Molly was a grown-up lady and all grown-up ladies have lipstick).

Lestrade laugh awkwardly once again.

He'd have to _fight_ for this girl, he would… but there was _no way_ his nine-year old daughter was going to have anything to do with make-up.

"We'll see." Lestrade answered neutrally as he smiled down at Katherine, "Now let's go."

He started towards the front door of the house, his children galloping after him.

* * *

"He was buried?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, go dig him up, then! _Now!"_

"Yes, ma'am."

As Molly and her 'kidnapper' approached the office, they saw the leader of the four men hurry out the door which slammed behind him.

His face was as white as his uniform and the walls that surrounded them.

"What are you doing here!" he whispered as soon as he saw Molly and his co-worker.

"It's not my fault!" the younger man explained also in a whisper, "She asked to see the boss!"

"Okay, okay, whatever!" the older (which, in this case, meant twenty instead of eighteen) man dismissed, "Let her see her! We have to go get the others and dig Sherlock Holmes out of his grave right now! Before _she_ gets any angrier!"

"Oh!" was all Molly's 'captor' could say as his co-worker dragged him off back down the hallway.

And so Molly was left just standing there.

Now_ would_ have been the perfect time to escape…if she had had any notion of how to get out of wherever, _whatever _this place was.

So all Molly could do was continue where she was headed and at least try to talk to the boss around here—whoever_ she_ was.

She must be in charge of the entire secret laboratory, Molly reasoned, from the way those (barely) grown men were afraid of her.

The name on the white office door was Doctor Stapleton.

(Where had she heard that name before? Molly cursed herself for being so bad with names.)

Molly hesitated before as she raised a fist to knock on the door.

_No._

Molly was_ not_ going to be scared.

She knew _Jim Moriarty,_for god's sake!

(And it doesn't get much scarier or more dangerous than that.)

She knew him and she was _still alive._

And so Molly Hooper was going to walk through that door and face whatever scary, evil doctor this Stapleton woman _tried _to be and win.

She'd survived _this_ long, after all, and there was a reason.

Instead of knocking, Molly grabbed the door handle, and pulled open the door sharply—or at least tried to, anyway.

It didn't budge.

Locked maybe?

"It's a push!" a voice from inside the office called.

Molly waited until she felt the red fall from her face to turn the handle, push the door open and walk into the office.

It was small, _cramped_ even and decorated with a desk that wasn't at all like the sleek and modern white of the rest of the building, but manilla and chipped from the kind of furniture store Molly could actually afford to shop at.

At the desk (which was cluttered with files, paper, a computer and…_Molly and Jim's phones!)_ sat a middle-aged woman in a white labcoat much like Molly's own white labcoat.

She was seated in a folding chair because the rolling chair that normally accompanied the desk had been rolled around the tiny room (leaving a trail of items knocked off shelves in its wake) by the tiny girl that occupied its thin cushion.

"Hi, I'm Kirsty Stapleton." The child greeted, waving at up Molly brightly, "What's_ your_ name?"

"Molly Hooper." Molly answered before realizing that her instinctive politeness (especially to children and the elderly) would one day get her into trouble.

"Molly Hooper?" Doctor Stapleton repeated, curiously, _"Interesting_…thanks, Kirsty."

Perhaps today was that day.

"No problem, mum!" Kirsty grinned mischievously.

Molly turned away from her to face Stapleton.

"Doctor Stapleton, I would like to talk to you." she stated, determinedly, then adding, "In private, if that's possible…" because she really didn't want to get the little girl involved any further in this _(this being a strange secret lab, kidnapping, Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes, etc...). _

"Of course it's _'possible'."_ Stapleton considered.

"You've got to say _'please'."_ Kirsty whispered loudly to Molly, "You can't say 'can I', you've got to say _'may_ I' and you've_ always_ got to say 'please'."

"…thank you…um, Kirsty." Molly thanked, turning to smile politely at her, before returning to Stapleton, "May I speak with you out in the hall…_please?" _

"Alright." Stapleton agreed, rising from her seat slowly and then addressing her daughter, "I'll be back in a few minutes. Keep your behavior acceptable while I'm gone. Remember, my little labrat, they're always watching."

She gestured up at the security camera in the ceiling corner, turning to nod at it respectfully.

Kirsty glanced up at the camera, smiling and waving up at it.

While mother and daughter were distracted, Molly snatched her and Jim's cellphones off the desk and stashed them in her labcoat pocket.

"I'll be good." She promised.

" '_Good'?"_ Stapleton repeated, an eyebrow raised disapprovingly.

"_Acceptable."_ Kirsty corrected herself quickly, guiltily, "I'll be _acceptable,_ mum. There's no such thing as 'good'."

"Very good, darling." Stapleton smiled, patting a confused and frustrated Kirsty on the head as she exited the room.

Molly followed Stapleton out the door which closed behind them as they entered the long, white and very bright hallway.

"So what do you want to talk to me about, Doctor Hooper?" Stapleton sighed, "You pulled me away from some of my more important work and so this better be good…"

"How did you know I'm a doctor?" Molly exclaimed.

"…Sherlock Holmes came to visit me here at Baskerville." Staple explained, "Or don't you read the blog?"

_John's blog!_

So _that _was why Molly recognized the name 'Stapleton'!

Molly had read 'The Hounds of Baskerville' online and so she knew _all about_ this military base (which she had guessed correctly the name of) and Doctor Stapleton.

This lady wasn't anybody to be afraid of.

The worst she had done was given her daughter a glowing rabbit.

"If you know I know Sherlock Holmes…" Molly stated, "Then you know what I want to talk to you about._ Why_ did your employees break into the morgue at St. Bartholomew's and try to steal his body?"

"Research." Stapleton said and that was all she was going to say.

"Well, you should have done your 'research' about how Sherlock was already buried…" Molly grumbled.

"That information was never released to the public." Stapleton informed, "It's very interesting to me that you would know that."

That came as a surprise to Molly.

She'd been to Sherlock's 'funeral' and although it had been private, she hadn't known it had been _secret._

Just another thing Sherlock hadn't told her.

(Of course, he _did_ have a good reason not to trust her, Molly reminded herself.)

"I know that because I work at the morgue." Molly saved herself, hurriedly.

"What's even _more _interesting to me is that James Moriarty was in your morgue, Doctor Hooper," Stapleton continued, "and he was very much alive. Did you perhaps have something to do with that?"

"His name is Richard Brook." Molly lied, "He's an actor Sherlock paid—"

Stapleton interrupted Molly with a laugh.

"Don't try to fool me with that rubbish." She dismissed, "I saw Sherlock Holmes _work,_ remember? Despite what the papers say, he was no fraud. He was a _genius_ and I want to _study _him."

"Then what do you need _Jim_ for?" Molly demanded, now desperately.

Stapleton was a government employee, a doctor, it was both illegal _and_ immoral for her have people kidnapped and trapped in a lab!

_Why_ would she do this?

(Research, duh...)

Okay then, _why_ would she think she would be able to _get away _with it?

(If she _was _able to get away with it, Molly wondered what else went on down here at Baskerville.)

"… 'Jim'…" Stapleton repeated, smiling knowingly, "I see Mr. Moriarty is_ still_ your boyfriend, then."

"Do you read everything on John's blog?" Molly deflected.

"Sherlock Holmes impressed me." Stapleton shrugged, "It's a shame he's gone…"

"So you're a fan?" Molly tried, hoping to find some 'common-ground' with the fellow female doctor.

"Not the way you are." Stapleton scoffed, "Sherlock Holmes is a work of art, yes, but I don't like to just _look_ at beautiful things…I like to—"

"_W-what?"_ Molly stammered, taken aback.

She did not like the direction Stapleton was taking this conversation in.

Attempting to have a body stolen from a morgue because it was 'beautiful' and she wanted to do more than 'look'…

…what the _hell_ was going on here?

Stapleton laughed at this, too.

"His _mind,_ Doctor Hooper." She clarified, "I want to study his brain. But it's interesting that you assumed I meant something _else."_

Molly blushed, embarrassedly.

(Jim's dirty mind was rubbing off on her—oh_ god._ 'Rubbing off'…this was really getting _terrible,_ wasn't it?)

"…oh." was all Molly could choke out.

"_As I was saying,"_ Stapleton continued, "I don't just like to _look_ at beautiful things, I like to take them apart and see just what_ makes_ them so beautiful. I like to see how things _work."_

"…and that's what you're going to do to Jim." Molly 'deduced', evenly.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about 'Jim', _dear."_ Stapleton chided, patronizingly "I always put them back together when I'm done…just not always in the same way. I also like to build _new_ things, you see, and perhaps I can build you a new boyfriend. New and _improved." _

'_I'_ Stapleton had said…

…which meant that Stapleton was working alone in this (since her cowering and incompetent employees didn't seem to count).

Maybe the rest of Baskerville, as well as the British government, had no idea she had even tried to take Sherlock's 'body' and had kidnapped Jim Moriarty for experimental purposes.

'_Interesting'_ to know….

"…You can't be serious!" Molly exclaimed, "You know you can't do this. Experimenting on a live human-being? It's illegal, not to mention _wrong."_

"Do you think your boyfriend has ever cared about what's 'illegal' or 'wrong'?" Stapleton returned, now being very sincere and very frank, "He's killed and hurt so many, does he deserve any better than what he's done to others?"

(And it's not like Stapleton even believed a word of what she was saying, however it seemed like the kind of emotional logic of 'fairness' (no such thing) that made sense to Molly.)

But Molly had heard it all before, so many times…

…_from herself. _

"No. He doesn't." Molly admitted, sadly, "And he isn't my boyfriend. At least…at least not really…"

Ambiguously trailing off in a defeated, whispering voice left_ questions_ in Molly's statement.

Questions that Stapleton answered for herself rather than ask Molly the truth.

"…he's hurt you, hasn't he?" she assumed, "Moriarty…"

"_Yes."_ Molly affirmed, "…But I still want to help him. I still…care about him…and I think, in his own way—in whatever way he _can_—he might care about _me,_ too…"

Stapleton smiled a small and 'knowing' smile (even though she had no idea (but she had no idea that she had no idea)).

Sto_ckholm Syndrome, perhaps? _

_This_ would be interesting to study.

"Indeed Mr. Moriarty is…_broken."_ She accepted, "And if we discover what the problem is, we might even be able to_ fix_ him."

And so 'I' became 'we' and Molly Hooper became Doctor Stapleton's lab assistant.

* * *

The only one home at Molly's flat had been her pet cat.

Lestrade had flashed his badge (which he shouldn't have even had since he was on suspension) and the landlord had let him (and his children) inside.

(Because, of course, Molly could have been in grave danger in there and Lestrade had to save her if she was. (She wasn't.))

George had chased the cat around the apartment (knocking various items over) and Katherine had disappeared into Molly's bathroom.

When she emerged she looked like a clown (like a whore, actually, but 'clown' was the word Lestrade had used when he made his daughter wash the make-up off).

"I found the cat!" George declared as he marched out of Molly's bedroom, carrying the struggling, scratching animal in both arms.

"Put it down!" Lestrade shouted.

The last thing he wanted was an injured, crying son.

"…Okay…" George obeyed, dropping the cat which landed on its feet and scurried away.

As an apology to the pet (and to Molly), Lestrade opened a can of cat-food and dumped it into the bowl on the kitchen floor.

"Where's your friend?" Katherine asked, already watching Molly's television from the carpet, when a commercial break began.

"I don't know." Lestrade stated, "I don't know where she'd be if not at home or at work…"

"Can't you track people's phones?" Katherine asked, "I've seen policemen do it on telly before."

"Yes." Lestrade affirmed, an idea already forming in his mind, "Yes I can."

What a brilliant daughter he had, so much like her father.

* * *

Baskerville didn't have much…_interior decorating._

But white goes with everything and everything was white so at least it matched.

Jim liked it when things matched:

Clothes, shoes, socks, two sides of a face (symmetrically was beauty, after all), two people….

…Jim liked it when things matched so he could _mess them up. _

How would red 'paint' look, splashed all over these white walls in asymmetrical random splatter patterns?

It would look _pretty._

Pretty _ugly?_

The kind of unbalanced look that just_ annoyed_ people.

It never really bothered Jim.

…But then again, _blood_ never really bothered him either and it seemed to bother most people a lot more than things-not-matching did.

_Yes,_ Jim Moriarty (the _fabulous_ interior decorator(—always hire a gay man for fashion and decorating)) had _plans_ for these rooms of Baskerville.

Plans that he would put into action once he got free from these restrains holding him down to the table by his wrists, ankles and even neck so he couldn't sit up.

These two new scientists were_ not_ stupid.

They'd come in, knocked Jim out, cleaned up the mess he'd made of those two kids playing doctor, and the prepped Jim for…surgery(?) or whatever they were going to do to him in under half an hour.

And whatever it was, it involved a lot of little wires attached to Jim's skull (they better not have shaved his head) by suction-cups(?) which fed into a humming machine with a lot of blinking lights that sat to the side of the white table.

It was all very sci-fi (it was a very normal EEG machine).

Jim was actually _impressed,_ once he'd woken up to see the two men standing over him.

They also wore white uniforms but their faces were completely covered by surgical masks and goggles (_smart,_ now Jim didn't know who they were and so he couldn't hunt them down later _(smart_—except for the fact that Jim would just as soon kill everyone in this building)).

"So they brought in the professionals, I see." Jim commented, gazing up at the faceless scientists above him.

"Shh…" one said, "Just rest."

"The doctor will be with you in a moment." the other added.

Jim realized that these two_ were_ 'professionals' and weren't going to have a_ chat_ with him during which he would distract them long enough to figure a way out of this situation, kill them and then escape.

Smart men, indeed.

_Omniscient,_ even as only seconds after the second scientist had said the 'doctor' would arrive, she _did._

_She. _

…Molly Hooper.

(?)

(!)

Molly entered the room through the double doors in her white labcoat, eyeing Jim with detached regard, cold and scientific.

What the hell was going on here?

Had _Molly_ been the one who'd had him captured and brought to Baskerville to be…studied(?) and everything else _(…everything else…)_ had all been a ruse to distract and confuse Jim from the truth?

(After all, it was _convenient_ that those men 'kidnapped' them from the morgue while Jim was still paralyzed. Very _convenient.)_

How could Jim have had no idea?

Was this how Mycroft had felt when he finally realized it James was Jim's brother and the creator of the keycode?

(Stupid.)

Was this how Sherlock had felt when he finally realized Molly had been sleeping with Jim the whole time?

(Stupid.)

And _why had_ Molly been sleeping with Jim the whole time?

Just to trick him so she could eventually get him into a laboratory for testing?

Jim _should have known_ that Molly's 'good girl' routine had been acting (he _was_ an actor after all) there was no way anyone could be that much of a shy and sweet little _doormat!_

It was all _lies,_ it had all been a _game—_

"Well it looks like you were _right,_Doctor Hooper."

Molly and Jim both turned to look back at the doors as the other woman in the white labcoat walked into the white room.

"What do you mean, Doctor Stapleton?" Molly asked her, conveniently giving Jim this new character's name.

Stapleton smiled.

"The machine was buzzing just a moment ago." She explained, gesturing to the source of the wires connected to Jim's head which was blinking excitedly, "There was quite a lot of _emotion_ from Mr. Moriarty when he saw you come in. He really _does_ care."

Jim glanced at Stapleton, then over to the machine.

Beside it stood the professionals, furiously writing down notes onto their clipboards, translating its lights to Jim's thoughts the way the machine had translated Jim's thoughts into lights.

Jim turned back to Molly.

Her face was almost expressionless.

She was trying so hard to hide a tiny smile of her own.

She didn't _need_ a machine to tell her that Jim had cared when he'd seen her and thought that everything between them had actually been _nothing._

The look on his face had been enough.

That quick look of unplanned, unpracticed, unpretending, unpurposed _true emotion_ on Jim's face almost made Molly forgive him for every lie he'd ever told.

Was that how Sherlock had felt, for that one moment, when he'd thought John was Moriarty?

(Betrayed.)

Was that how John had felt when he saw how betrayed Sherlock had looked in that one moment?

(Reassured that he truly cared about their friendship.)

And was _this _how Sherlock had felt when Jim revealed himself and saw that John _wasn't_ Moriarty which meant their friendship was real, after all?

(Thank god.)

When the machine's beeps returned to a steady and predictable pattern resembling a heartbeat, Jim decided it was _'safe'_ to speak.

"Of course I care!" Jim declared, "…oh wait. No I don't."

"His brain has no change when he lies." One of the men taking notes commented.

"No guilt, no recognition…" the other followed, "There is no distinction between truth and fiction in his mind."

"Interesting." Stapleton noted, nodding at them.

"It'll take more than cheap tricks to keep _me_ entertained, _ladies."_ Jim scoffed, "And here I'd hoped that 'Doctor Hooper' was about to become '_interesting'…"_

"We're not here for your entertainment, Mr. Moriarty." Stapleton returned, "You're here for _mine_…and for the sake of science, of course. How kind of you to donate your body."

"Darling, you can use my body anytime." Jim winked at her and then turned to Molly, "You, too, doc—but you already know that, don't you?"

Molly said nothing and looked away from Jim, down at her feet, trying not to blush for the third time that day (night? (whenever it was)).

"No arousal when talking about sex." The first professional stated, "And no shame or embarrassment either."

"Those are normal reactions for most people." The second reminded, probably for Molly's sake (or anyone else unfamiliar with their area of science who happened to be listening), "He has no reaction whatsoever."

"Maybe he's gay." Stapleton shrugged, offhandedly, "…Let's scan his brain and find out."

* * *

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"Are we—"

"NO!" Lestrade shouted, turning around to glare at his kids in the back seat of his (not a police) car, "Katherine and George Lestrade, I want you both to be silent until we get there."

"But when will we—"

"Silent."

Katherine and George gulped, turning away from their father to stare out their respective windows at the green countryside rolling past them.

They were on their way to some place called Baskerville.

Apparently their dad's friend Molly was there, a fact which had scared him.

They'd never seen their father _scared_ before, not really…

…all the times their mother had been scared (like when George swam under the water too long at the pool, or when Katherine fell during gymnastics practice) their father hadn't been there.

He'd been at work.

(Their PE teacher, however, had been there and he had been scared, too, just like their mum. He'd not only been teaching them their physical education class since they'd begun primary school, but teaching them on their extra-curricular teams (swimming for George, gymnastics for Katherine) as well…

… all for free, even, because he knew that their father and mother didn't make much money (because he knew that their father was always _busy_ and their mother was very pretty and very lonely.))

Lestrade's other 'friend' Sally Donovan (who George and Katherine's mother used to complain about) had warned Lestrade that she wasn't allowed to have phones tracked for him, that she wasn't even allowed to be _talking_ to him pending the investigation.

But then Lestrade had reminded (threatened) her about her 'coworker' Anderson and how his wife would just_ love_ to know about their 'friendship'.

And so Donovan had had Molly Hooper's phone tracked.

(And so Katherine and George had decided adult relationship dynamics were too complicated to even try to figure out.)

George and Katherine had watched a documentary about Dartmoor, once when their mother put on the educational (boring) channel, and so they recognized the area their father was driving them through.

The movie was very scary and had given both Katherine and George a fear of dogs (since this movie was a 'true' story their mum couldn't tell them not to worry since was all special effects and fictional)…

…until it turned out that the 'hound' was fake because Sherlock Holmes figured it out, which calmed their fears…

…until it turned out that Sherlock Holmes was fake, too, because the newspapers had figured it out (and their own father hadn't).

And so Lestrade and his children drove in apprehensive silence (kids afraid of Dartmoor's dogs and their father's shouts) until they reached the heavily guarded gates to Baskerville.

Lestrade's vehicle waited in the queue of cars, behind a van carrying a camera-crew and filming equipment.

When the van (and its frustrated driver and passengers) was forced to turn around and leave the base, Lestrade's (not a police) car pulled up to the booth.

Men in military uniforms surrounded them immediately.

Some of them held barking and sniffing German-Sheppards on leashes, which made George and Katherine cower inside the car.

Lestrade rolled down his window.

"What is your business here?" the guard asked.

"I'm an Inspector Detective." Lestrade stated, showing the man his identification, "My assignment is classified."

The guard raised an eyebrow, skeptically.

"If you're here in an official capacity…why do you have your kids here?" he questioned.

"Learning experience." Lestrade shrugged, "School's out and they're bored. I thought I might give 'em a little fieldtrip, spend some quality time together."

The guard furrowed his brow in thought and then nodded.

"Well it does so happen to be take your child to work day, today." he informed, "Some of the scientists and soldiers have got their kids here today with them."

"Yeah, I know." Lestrade bluffed, "That's why I brought mine."

"Alright, then you can go in." the guard accepted, "But remember the rules. No children on the lower levels."

"Okay." Lestrade agreed.

The guard waved at the other guards to stand down and at Lestrade to go on in through the gates.

And as Lestrade drove forwards he saw the guard return to his post and his son who sat swiveling back and forth on his father's swivel chair through the rear-view mirror.

* * *

This room was white and brightly lit, just like all the others.

It held a clear board upon which Stapleton tacked a two translucent photos taken by the brain-scanner on.

She clicked a button and the pictures were illuminated by the board from behind, allowing her and Molly to see images of brains.

"This one," Stapleton noted, pointing to the first photo, "Is James Moriarty."

Molly nodded.

"And this one," Stapleton added, pointing to the second photo, "Is a random brain scan taken from a pool of volunteers participating in a study, all of them of average lives and average intelligence. University students who needed the money, mostly."

Molly nodded.

"…So what's the difference?" Stapleton asked, gesturing to the two brain-scans and turning to Molly.

Molly examined the board and the photos and then looked back at Stapleton.

"Frontal lobe damage." She stated, "Jim has frontal lobe damage. It dulls judgment-making and critical-thinking abilities of the mind. It leads to impulsive, immoral behavior."

Stapleton laughed softly, shaking her head.

"Doctor Hooper, dear, look in this folder for me, please."

She handed Molly a manila folder from which she had pulled the two brain-scans.

Molly flipped through the contents, seeing hundreds of clear photos of brains.

"About tenth of them have some kind of prefrontal cortex damage." Stapleton explained, "Some much more than Mr. Moriarty's, even, his being only very minor. One of these subjects had so much damage he was in a coma for a year, after a cycling accident. That damage was sudden and severe. Another subject was abused her entire childhood. That damage cumulated to be just as severe. But do you know what happened to those two subjects?"

"No." Molly said, although she had a pretty good idea what Stapleton would say.

"They led normal lives." Stapleton told her, "The human brain is the most powerful computer on earth. It can survive almost anything because it can _adapt._ When it breaks, it fixes itself. It either repairs the damage or finds some way to work around it. That's called brain plasticity."

"_I know."_ Molly replied, closing the folder sharply, "I went to medical school. I've learned all this before…But nothing is perfect. Not even the human brain—especially not the human brain."

"I agree with that, all I am saying is—"

"There is no excuse for Jim's behavior. I know. _He_ knows. And he doesn't care."

"Do _you?"_

"Yes…but that doesn't mean I can stop him. I've tried to but I can't. No one can."

Molly sighed.

Stapleton went from the board to her, and took the folder from Molly as an excuse to pat her on the hand.

"You're not responsible for what he's done." She consoled.

"Yes I am." Molly whispered, eyes downcast and attempting to fill with tiny tears, "I didn't stop him…and then I saved his life. Whatever he's done, whatever he'll do…It's my fault now as much as it's his."

(And she really did believe what she said. _The dramatic performance,_ however, was to make sure_ Stapleton _did.)

"That's ridiculous." Stapleton dismissed, "Unless you actually helped him commit the crimes he has, it's not your responsibility for what he's done.

"It's not?"

Wide, hopeful eyes looked up at the mother—no _older sister_—figure, begging for advice and comfort.

"Of course not! If that were true, then when would it ever stop? If somebody goes out and shoots someone, is it my responsibility for not being there to stop him? If the person dies, is it my responsibility for not taking the bullet? We're all bystanders, Doctor Hooper, we watch. We don't get involved."

"What about everything they do here at Baskerville? All the experiments…?"

"That's science. That doesn't count.

Molly looked unconvinced.

"It's a job." Stapleton explained, "Everyone who works here works here for science, for the government, for the greater good. What we do here, the discoveries and progress we make, benefit everyone and so they _belong_ to everyone. Besides, we're all just following orders, anyway…"

"Who ordered you to steal Sherlock's body and kidnap Jim?" Molly asked because she genuinely wanted to know.

"Nonspecific orders." Stapleton shrugged, "Our motto here is: 'auxilium populo auxilium se'. It's Latin for 'use mankind to be kind to man'—or something like that—which we at Baskerville take to mean 'use humans for experiments that will benefit humankind'. We do experimentation not only on plants, animals and smaller life-forms, but on human-beings, as well, because we will find solutions to the problems that all humans face, big and small. Which is why we make medicine_ and_ weapons."

"But you like doing it." Molly suspected, "Experimenting…"

"No shame in enjoying one's work." Stapleton confirmed, "It's not a job to do if you don't love it. Same with mortuary work, I assume."

"Yes." Molly admitted.

(There was a skill to this, lying, a _balance_…you had to tell the truth sometimes.)

"Well we've got to stick together then," Stapleton smiled, "We women in science are quite a rare species."

Molly smiled back.

That she _did_ agree with.

"Endangered, almost." Molly laughed.

"Yes and it's always so hard to find mate," Stapleton chuckled, "I can und why you stayed with your criminal. In a field like ours, one can't be picky…"

"No, you really can't." Molly giggled, then adding in her best deadpan, "…that's why I stayed with Jim even though he put a gun to my head, held a knife to my throat and did what he wanted to me until I just let him do it _without_ the weapons."

Now Molly knew better than to joke about rape.

She'd known rape victims, worked with them when she volunteered at clinics.

But this was no joke.

This was how she was going to get herself and Jim out of Baskerville alive and undamaged.

"…oh." Stapleton said, because it was all she _could_ say.

And before she and Molly could continue their earlier conversation, one of Stapleton's two competent employees stepped into the room to address her.

"Doctor Stapleton, you're needed upstairs…you have a visitor."

"I do?" Stapleton responded, "Interesting…Doctor Louie, stay here with Doctor Hooper, I don't trust her just yet. She's got a terrible case of the Patty Hearsts."

"Yes ma'am." The man with goggles and a surgical mask nodded.

Stapleton strode out of the room, leaving Molly with 'Louie' (which Molly doubted was his real name) and the pretty pictures of people's brains.

They watched Stapleton go and once she was gone, Molly turned to Louie.

"I want to see Jim." she requested.

* * *

Primates screeched in cages, reptiles darted around tanks, and children darted around the big white room, screeching.

"It's like a zoo in here!" George exclaimed, "Daddy, Kay, come see this lizard! It changes color!"

"Don't touch that!" Lestrade warned, rushing across the room from where he had been conversing with a white uniformed scientist over to where George stood on tip-toes, peering and reaching into the opened tank of a chameleon, "It could be poisonous!"

"No it's not." George informed, "I learned at school that it's not."

Lestrade pulled him away anyway.

"Where's your sister?" he asked.

"I dunno." George shrugged.

Katherine was with her best friend Kirsty (who despite only being eight, had skipped a grade to be in nine-year-old Katherine's class) petting soft rabbits with fur that matched the walls and blood-red eyes.

Kirsty was the reason Katherine's nickname was 'Kay' instead of 'Katie' or 'Kate'.

(There were three other Katherines in their class ( 'Katherine', 'Katie' and 'Kate') and so Kirsty had suggested 'Kay' which is what she would have used had there been two Kirstens in the class instead of three Katherines.)

Katherine like Kirsty.

She was very smart and helped her pass (cheat on) the harder tests; in exchange she let her play (tricks on their fellow classmates) with her.

It was a good deal (friendship) they had going.

"I had one named Bluebell once." Kirsty recounted, "She glowed."

"I had a goldfish named Goldie once." Katherine recounted, "He died."

"Oh." Kirsty accepted, "Mine too."

"Your goldfish or your rabbit?" Katherine inquired.

"My goldfish." Kirsty answered, "My rabbit disappeared. I checked the hutch and she was gone."

"That's what happened to my goldfish." Katherine stated, "One day he was just gone from the bowl. My mum said he had to go back to the ocean. My brother told me she flushed him down the toilet."

Kirsty and Katherine pet the calm (sedated) rabbits as they sat cross-legged on the tile.

"Your brother or your goldfish?"

"My goldfish…but I wish she'd have flushed my brother instead. I asked my dad what happened and he said that Goldie had died. He said there's no point in lying about death to children since everybody dies and dying is everywhere. Your rabbit's probably dead too."

"Bluebell's only _dead?_...oh well, that's not too bad, then. My mum can always bring her back."

"Can not."

"Can too!"

"Can not, times a thousand!"

"Can too, times infinity! So there."

"Prove it."

Katherine put down her rabbit to fold her arms.

"My mum brought some guy who got blown up back life." Kirsty 'proved', "She had the big kids sew him back together and then they made him alive again."

"You made that story up." Katherine accused, "I saw it before in a movie and it's a book, too. It's called Frankenstein."

"No, it's real!" Kirsty denied, "And if you don't believe you're just stupid!"

She jumped up, leaving the rabbit on the floor to run away from Katherine and hide under a table holding a cage of monkeys.

Katherine dashed after her, but was snatched by her father before she could get to Kirsty.

"That's enough." Lestrade declared, "You shouldn't playing around in here."

"Why are you only telling me?" Katherine whined as she tried to free herself from his grasp, "Tell Georgie, too."

"I did tell him." Lestrade stated, letting her go and gesturing to his son, who nodded.

"He did." George confirmed.

"Tell her, then." Katherine pouted, pointing at Kirsty who still crouched under the table, giggling to herself.

"She's not my responsibility." Lestrade dismissed, "She's not my daughter."

"But you're a police!" Katherine reminded, "You can tell everybody what to do!"

"…not really." Lestrade replied.

Not while he was on suspension, anyway.

"Excuse me, Mr. Lestrade?"

Lestrade, Katherine and George turned to see Stapleton.

Kirsty rushed out from under the cages and over to hug her mother.

"Mrs. Stapleton…I didn't know you worked here." Lestrade said, surprised.

"Don't you read Doctor Watson's blog?" Stapleton asked, also surprised, "It had both my and my daughter's name on it, some much for protecting the innocent." She held her daughter close.

"Sure I do," Lestrade acknowledged, "…I just didn't know you were the same people."

He chuckled embarrassedly.

Same names=same people.

How had he _not_known?

…_How stupid…_

"Why are you here?" Stapleton asked.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine." Lestrade stated, "Her name is Molly Hooper. She's gone missing and I've traced her phone to this location."

"How long has she been missing?" Stapleton questioned.

"…almost a day." Lestrade answered.

"You have too much time on your hands, then." Stapleton scoffed, "You must have been suspended from the force for your involvement with Sherlock Holmes. Shame, really. He wasn't the fraud they're saying he is…"

"I know." Lestrade agreed, "…And since you know as well I'm sure you can understand why I'm taking the fact that my friend is here very seriously."

"Your 'friend'?" Stapleton repeated, raising an eyebrow, " You came all the way out to Baskerville, with your children, and managed to sneak in here? That's a lot of concern for just a friend."

"Well she's a very good friend." Lestrade snapped, "Now where is she?"

"I don't know!" Stapleton exclaimed, "Baskerville's a big place. She could be anywhere…if she's even actually here. Phones aren't allowed to be traced to this base, by the way, the government put up scrambler to block it."

Lestrade hadn't known this.

…and neither had Sally or the phone-tracer or the phone-tracer's computer, either, apparently since they had given Lestrade the exact and specific location of Baskerville.

"I saw the phone was in Dartmoor and I 'deduced'." Lestrade lied.

"Leave the deductions to the real detectives, Mr. Lestrade." Stapleton scoffed, "And leave Baskerville. Go look for your 'friend' out in the moor."

"I am a real detective!" Lestrade shouted, "And I know Molly's here so you need to tell me where she is right now!"

"I'm not telling you anything." Stapleton refused, "And I'm going to have to call security if you don't leave immediately."

And then Lestrade got an idea.

"If you call security…" he warned, "…_I'll_ call Mycroft Holmes."

"What?" Staple gasped, taken aback.

"You heard me." Lestrade smirked.

"You wouldn't _dare."_ Stapleton growled.

"Mycroft is a good friend of mine, as well, Doctor Stapleton." Lestrade stretched, "As was his late brother Sherlock, who he also knows was not a fraud. And seeing as how Sherlock found out about all the strange stuff going on down here, I'm sure Mycroft would be happy to give me an all-access pass to look around down here, see what else I can find."

"I had nothing to do with what Doctor Frankland was up to with that hallucinogenic gas." Stapleton distanced, "None of us here did. He was working alone."

"I don't care who's working with what." Lestrade reasoned, "All I care about is Molly Hooper and so you're going to give her to me_ or_ I'm going to call Mycroft and we're going to tear this place apart finding her and whatever _else _might be hidden here."

"…You know what?" Stapleton decided, "Feel free to look around as much as you want. Maybe you'll find your friend…or maybe you'll find something else. You never know what you'll find here at Baskerville. _Dangerous animals, deadly diseases, monsters, aliens_…all very 'educational' things to expose your children to, Mr. Lestrade."

"You've got your daughter here." Lestrade reminded, pointing to Kirsty.

"She was _born_ here." Stapleton stated, proudly, patting her daughter on the back, "She's my genetic clone."

Lestrade blinked.

Maybe this wasn't the best place to bring his kids on a fieldtrip after all.

And if Stapleton would volunteer that information so easily, why wouldn't she have admitted that Molly was here as well?

And _why _would Molly even be at Baskerville in the first place?

It didn't make any sense…

…_unless…_

…unless Sally was mad at Lestrade for threatening to expose her and Anderson's affair to Anderson's wife and so sent him on a 'wild goose chase' out to Baskerville.

Of course.

Molly was probably just visiting her parents or something, she'd never go to a place like Baskerville.

Lestrade felt stupid.

And embarrassed.

"Come on, kids, let's go." He ordered, grabbing both Katherine and George by the hands and turning them all around to leave.

"Leaving so soon?" Stapleton taunted.

"I'll be back." Lestrade warned, "... I won't do this with any children here."

He didn't say when he'd be back or what he was going to that he wouldn't in front of children.

"Playdates soon, I hope." Stapleton called after him, "I'm thinking of making a boy soon. Your son could be friends with him."

Lestrade held his children's hands tighter and hurried all three of them out of the room, through the labyrinth of white halls and laboratories, and back out towards the gates of Baskerville.

* * *

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to kill him for everything he's done for me! He deserves to die!"

Louie pulled a struggling Molly off of Jim before she was able to smother him with her ungloved hands.

"Let me go!" Molly demanded, elbowing him and fighting to get free, "Get off of me!"

"A little help please, Doctor Buddy!" Louie grunted as he attempted to hold Molly still with her hands behind her back.

'Doctor Buddy' (which Molly and Jim both doubted was his real name) jogged over to Louie, clutching Molly's other arm.

Jim (whose head was still strapped down to the table, making it difficult to see) watched the scene with mild interest.

This must be Molly's _'daring and brilliant'_ escape plan.

…it was working very well.

_Definitely. _

He wondered why it only took one teenager to restrain Molly before and now it took two grown men.

(Adrenaline, maybe? They had used a shot to revive him after knocking him out earlier, but where would Molly have gotten one of those and how would she have even known?)

"Let go of me!" Molly screamed, "I'm going to kill him!"

"We've got to get her out of the room!" Buddy shouted.

And so he and Louie dragged Molly out into the hallway, leaving Jim _still_ tied to the table unable to move and hooked into a machine reading his every thought.

He guessed it was up to him now to get free as Molly had gotten rid of the professionals for him.

But just like every performer, an escape-artist needs an audience.

Jim smiled as the nice … _doctor(?)—scientist(?)—piece-of-meat_ in a white uniform entered the room to 'guard' him while Buddy and Louie were gone.

"…She…she tried to _kill _me…" Jim coughed, weakly, "…I—_help me…" _

And then he 'fainted'.

* * *

It had been a long day for the four young Baskerville interns.

All they'd wanted was to join to the army…

…but they hadn't been 'cut-out' for military service and so they'd been sent _here._

Obviously, Baskerville believed they were 'cut-out' for kidnapping people getting stabbed in the neck with syringes, grave-robbing, and driving vans around for over twenty-four hours without sleep.

Now the young men had finally returned to the base, along with Sherlock Holmes.

They pushed the smelling, already decomposing body in the black bag on the stretched down the bright halls, down the elevator and down to their boss's lab.

They were met in the hall by Buddy and Louie.

"What is that?" one of the two asked (the interns never could tell the two doctors apart, their faces were always covered by surgical masks and goggles).

"That's the body the boss asked us to get." The leader of the four stated.

"_Sherlock Holmes?"_ the same one guessed.

"Yes." The leader confirmed, with a nod, "We're going to put it on the table for her."

"…May I see?—"

The first doctor was interrupted by the second who pulled him away and down the hall.

"No." she whispered.

_She!_

Only one of the interns noticed the _female_ voice belonging to the _female_ person pulling the male doctor away.

It was a voice, it was a person, that he _recognized._

She looked back quickly as she hurried away and saw the twenty year old man looking back at her.

Then there was the panicked, pleading gaze in her kind brown eyes.

The intern shrugged, turning around to help his coworkers carry the body into the room ahead.

So what if he got fired later?

(… when Doctor Stapleton learned that Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper had escaped on his(and the other interns' watch)…

…when Doctor Stapleton found the fifth intern in her charge tied up with wires from an EEG machine and missing a bit of tongue after a particularly bad kiss (attempted CPR of an unconscious 'patient' (test subject (Jim Moriarty)))…)

_He didn't really like this job, anyway…_

* * *

Jim and Molly waited until they were 'safely' (but when is one ever truly _safe_ when one _is_ or is _with_ Jim Moriarty?) out of Baskerville and well into the moor before discarding their (stolen) goggles and surgical masks.

(The security guards were so busy checking who was coming _in_ to the base, that they never thought to check who was coming _out.) _

Molly did have other clothes under her (stolen) white uniform, but Jim was happy to finally have (stolen) pants and (stolen) shoes.

They ran aimlessly through the woods until they got tired and far enough away to walk.

Then Molly decided it was 'safe' to speak.

"…We're you ever abused as a child?" she asked, bluntly because there was really no sensitive way to ask such a sensitive question.

Jim snorted.

"What do you mean?"

"Frontal lobe damage."

Molly knew Jim would know what she meant.

"What do you mean?" he repeated.

He stopped in his tracks (their tracks, really, because the path he was making through the forest was the one Molly was following. even she knew better than to let him walk behind her.) and turned back to look at her.

His expression was confused…but, of course, he'd always been good at _faking it _(—no! dirty mind! not again!)_. _

"Did your parents ever hit you?" Molly inquired.

She added extra concern and caring into her statement, not for Jim (who didn't need it) but for the child might have been (who might have).

"No." Jim answered.

_Was he lying? _Molly wondered.

(If he was and he didn't want her to know she never would.)

Jim could see Molly just thinking away with that furrowed brow of hers, trying to figure out what he was thinking.

But nobody could do _that,_ not even that sci-fi machine from the future (the very normal EGG machine).

"Save the excuses for Freud and the courtroom." Jim scoffed, "I won't share the credit for my brilliance with anyone."

"I saw your brain scans." Molly stated, "How did you get the damage?"

"Maybe I fell down the stairs." Jim suggested, "Maybe I was hit in with a boomerang—no, that would have killed me…Maybe an apple fell and hit me on the head."

"Joking is a deflection." Molly chided.

"You're adorable." Jim dismissed, "A couple hours in Baskerville and you think you're a brain expert _and_ a psychologist."

"…Could your mother have maybe—"

"Dropped me on my head as a baby?"

"…Yes."

Jim laughed, turning away from Molly to continue walking through the moor.

"To do that she would have had to pick me up first."

After standing dumbstruck for a second, Molly jumped to run after him before he got too far away (and got them both lost out in the Dartmoor forest).

She tripped on a few branches before finding her footing and catching up to Jim.

"You know neglect is abuse, too…" She tried.

"You're not getting my life story." Jim shot-down, "If you wanted_ that_ you should've asked my brother."

"But I told you mine…" Molly reminded.

"And in exchange you got to live." Jim reminded, glancing back to grin at her, "It's my story or your life. You can't both. I'll tell you… but then I'll have to kill you."

"…Fine." Molly accepted, with a defeated sigh.

And she was indeed happy that she got to live.

She'd kept Jim captive for three days in the morgue and yet he hadn't brutally murdered her.

She thought that meant she was _special…_

…but then she realized Jim hadn't killed Stapleton or any of her employees, either.

* * *

"Where are Doctor Buddy and Doctor Louie?" Stapleton demanded.

Hands on her hips, she was glaring at her four cowering interns, daughter at her side mimicking her mannerisms and facial expressions.

"We don't know." The oldest intern answered, truthfully, "They left."

"They _left?"_ Stapleton repeated, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Yes, ma'am." The youngest, nodding, "They left."

"They didn't just leave!" Stapleton exclaimed, throwing her hands up (Kirsty did the same), "They can't just _leave! _They can_ never_ leave!_"_

"…Why not, ma'am?" the intern with a bandage on his neck asked.

To this Stapleton smiled an angry smile, shaking her head.

"Because…" she explained, "they're _experiments! _ They _live_ here!"

"What?" all four interns cried, thoroughly shocked.

"They're aliens." Stapleton stated, "They crashed landed here almost fifty years ago. Baskerville did all the tests they could, got all the 'good' they could out of them and then just put them to work. Why waste the 'man'-power? —although they're not as 'powerful' as any human man. Shape-shifters is what they are, they're just like clay, and they can stretch and mold their shape to look _sort of_ human—with a lot of clothes on, that is…but they can't change their mass _or_ their strength…."

Stapleton gave her gawking, jaw-dropped interns a moment to process everything before continuing.

"…Despite this, they _are_ very, very good at their jobs and so I'm going to ask you boys again…_where are Doctors Buddy and Louie?"_

* * *

The sun was setting as Lestrade drove himself and his children away from that insane secret laboratory that he sure as hell would never be going back to.

But despite all the _strangeness,_ it had been a good day, all-in-all.

And it was a nice evening to drive away from an adventure into the sunset.

"So, kids, what did you think of the fieldtrip?" Lestrade asked.

When he received no answer, he looked into his rear-view mirror to see Katherine and George already asleep in their car-seats.

Each held a soft and also sleeping white rabbit.

The animals had hopped after them as they'd rushed out of Baskerville and George and Katherine had begged to bring them along until Lestrade had finally allowed it.

(Apparently the guards at the gate were too busy checking the people coming in to check the people coming out.)

The poor animals would've been damned to a life as lab experiments, anyway, and Lestrade had wanted a way to get back at Stapleton for her unhelpful behavior today.

Hopefully the new pets would keep his kids busy this summer so he'd get _some_ peace and quiet.

Lestrade smiled when he saw the rabbits begin to glow in the growing darkness and then returned his eyes to the road.

His kids would love waking up to this when they got home.

And although they had _hated_ their old job, the aliens Abbot and Costello _loved_ their new one.

* * *

**Why Buddy and Louie?**

**Bud and Lou are Abbot and Costello's first names (according to my bff (you know who that is (Wikipedia)) and I didn't wanna make it too obvious.**

**Sorry if this chapter was too weird for anyone.**

**I assume a lot of you guys are like Doctor Who fans and so are okay with this kinda stuff (which is probably tame sci-fi compared to that show which I haven't ever had the time to actually watch).**

**Besides, Stapleton could've just been lying lol. **

**And why no childhood abuse for Jim?**

**Because that's overused for criminals in fiction.**

**And it makes actual abuse victims look bad when most grow up to well-adjusted, nice individuals and not murdering psychopaths.**

**Besides, the more concrete a 'reason' you give Jim for his behavior, the more it takes away from his character as a someone just doing what he does for the hell of it to have fun.**

**And I don't think he did it because his mom slapped him or his dad raped him...**

**...and speaking of rape. **

**Sorry if I offended anyone.**

**Usually I don't apologize for what I write but I thought that deserved it.**

**I'm not good at knowing when I've gone too far.**

**So please tell me when I have.**

**And I'm not just saying that to get more reviews.**

**...well, actually I am...**

**...but I do mean it and I am sorry.**


	5. Bombs Away

**UPDATE AGAIN AGAIN: oh my gosh...I know probably no one will believe me when I say this but I honestly did not know there was an actual bombing on this date a few years ago. In light of finding out that on Tumblr, I have to apologize for the content of this chapter and the date I posted it on. It was completely unintentional and I'm so sorry. 52 people died and it's too soon. Again, I'm sorry.  
**

**UPDATE AGAIN: Apparently Arthur Conan Doyle's deathday is today. RIP and thank you for creating everybody's favorite detective.  
**

**UPDATE: I switched 'plane' to 'train' for Guest.  
**

**And if you or I ever do lose interest in this story, do not fear.**

**My recommendation would be to watch the movie Red Eye, it's up on YouTube and I could make a list of all the parallels but just watch for yourself (or Wikipedia it) and see. **

**Then read the fanficiton. **

**It's an archive basically devoted to a Molliarty equivalent in any form you can imagine. **

**And it's basically canon, too. **

**It can easily replace my meager stories should you ever get bored or I lose confidence in myself. **

**Red Eye's a great movie if you're into that kinda thing. **

**That being said, I still like writing this and I hope ya'll still like reading…**

* * *

It was already dark and very difficult to see by the time Molly realized that she and Jim were lost.

"Stop!" she requested politely (demanded urgently).

"Why?" Jim asked.

Squinting through the darkness, Molly could (barely) see him turning around to make either a confused or a skeptical expression at her.

"Because you don't know where we are or where we're going!" Molly exclaimed.

"I never said I did." Jim shrugged.

"But I was following you!" Molly reasoned.

"That's_ your_ problem." Jim reasoned.

And he was right, of course.

Molly sighed.

"We can't wander aimlessly around the woods." She stated, "Doctor Stapleton is going to figure we're gone and when she does we'll have the entire military after us."

Jim laughed.

"Don't be stupid." Jim dismissed, "The last thing she'll do is get the military involved—she'd be in more trouble than _we _are, kidnapping somebody like me and then letting me escape."

"She has employees she can—" Molly attempted.

"Who_, _the boy band?" Jim scoffed They're cute, yes, but looking pretty doesn't get the work done. And they're probably too afraid of the dark to come out here looking for us. And the only _marginally_ competentemployees she has are the two we left sleeping soundly on the floor in their undies_._"

"…I put my labcoat over them as a blanket." Molly murmured.

She knew Jim would be mad.

"You left_ evidence_ behind?" Jim growled, advancing towards her back the way he'd came from only minutes before.

Leaves crunched under his footsteps and Molly backed away from him…

…into a tree.

_Of course,_ there had to be a tree right there.

(It wasn't there _before._ Oh but _now_…_Now_ it was there. (Or maybe it had been there before and Molly just hadn't seen it in the growing darkness.))

"I couldn't just leave them like that!" Molly explained, "They were just old men and it was so cold…_Besides,_ it's a _lab!_ Everyone wears a labcoat there. Mine didn't have my _name _on it or anything. There's no way anyone can tell it who it belongs to."

Instead of glaring or shouting or attacking Molly, Jim just laughed again, shaking his head down at his sockless feet in ill-fitting shoes.

He _tried _to be angry at Molly, he really did.

But he just _couldn't._

Although Molly did try so hard…

(To be a good person: being nice to people, trying to save people from being hurt or killed, giving blankets to unconscious old men…)

(To get in his way: stopping him from hurting, killing or being rude to people, leaving evidence behind, _saving his life…) _

…Jim just could not take her seriously enough to get seriously angry.

(And _so what_ if the machine had went all beep-happy when he though she'd 'betrayed' and/or 'tricked' him? It was beep-happy because _Jim_ was happy._ Yes._ He had been _happy._ Happy because had Molly been playing him this whole time then she'd finally be _interesting…_

…and that she had_ not_ been was boring. Jim was _disappointed_ that she wasn't. Not _relieved _that he hadn't been _fooled by_ Molly_, _not _happy _that he really _did _know her_._ Not at all. _No.)_

And so he _didn't._

"You're right." Jim conceded with a serene and insincere smile, "Silly me."

"_Still_ it _was_ stupid." Molly countered, quickly, "I shouldn't have done that…"

She didn't _like_ Jim admitting he was wrong…and she he knew _he _didn't like it either.

It just wasn't_ like_ him.

"You were just being kind." Jim reminded, "My sweet Molly, always being so _sweet." _

He hissed his final words as he traced her lips lightly with his fingertips.

She was expecting a kiss next…or an explosion of anger.

She got neither.

Jim patted Molly on the cheek and then chuckled as he turned to continue through the moor.

He'd felt her whole body tense at his words, at the touch of his fingers…

(and not for the first time, of course)

She was definitely _scared. _Scared of _him._

(and not for the first time, of course)

…and yet she followed him, once again, as he trekked through the fallen branches and leaves, rocks and mud that made up his (non)path through the forest.

She didn't know where he was going _(he_ didn't even know where he was going) but still she followed him into the black of the night.

His sweet Molly, indeed.

Did she _really think_ he would hurt her?_(—Yes. _He_ would. _Smart woman.)

But did she really think he would _kill_ her?

_No._

He_ wouldn't. _

Stupid girl.

He wasn't going to kill her. He_ couldn't_ kill her.

_(Yet.) _

After all, Jim _owed _Molly, didn't he?

Owed her his _life…_

…and _Sherlock's._

* * *

Even though women weren't allowed in the Diogenes Club nobody said anything when Anthea entered because the men that were allowed in the exclusive building weren't allowed to talk.

They did, however, glare (or stare in awe at her beauty as it had been a long time since they'd seen a woman).

Thankfully, Anthea was able to hurry (even in her heels) to the office Mycroft rented from the club before security was called (by _button,_ of course, not by voice).

Her employer did all his 'off the books' (mostly Sherlock and Moriarty related) work here so that _his_ employers (and yes, even Mycroft Holmes had a boss) wouldn't find out that he'd been spying on his younger brother (and basically everyone he knew, too)—among _other _things (making deals with Jim Moriarty, helping Sherlock Holmes fake his death, et cetera, _et cetera…). _

"Did you find him?" Mycroft asked.

He looked up from the papers (maps, financial data, et cetera, _et cetera…)_ in the folder on his lap his when he heard the door open.

"No, sir." Anthea answered, closing the door behind her, "We checked all the properties, all the computers, all the people who might know where he is but the 'target' is gone."

"He must have realized I'd be looking for him." Mycroft reasoned, "And then used his 'magic' to disappear."

They were talking about James Moriarty, the newly discovered older brother.

But even the silent Diogenes Club was not deaf and so Mycroft and Anthea knew better than to mention that name or the keycode within its walls…

…and knew quite well that someone was _always_ listening.

"He probably left the country." Anthea assumed.

"…probably…" Mycroft agreed in a mutter as he returned to his papers, rustling through them in search of some clue that wasn't there.

Anthea watched him and couldn't help but…_giggle_ (—on the inside, that is, under her professional and polite mask).

"Here." She offered, reaching out to hand her smartphone to Mycroft.

He looked up, eyeing it questioningly.

Anthea sat down at the armchair opposite his, continuing to extend the phone towards him.

"It's all uploaded, sir." She explained.

"What's uploaded?" Mycroft questioned.

"Everything." Anthea stated, matter-of-factly, "It's got internet access and as well as access to all government files—British _and _everyone else's."

Mycroft took the phone.

He didn't understand what was so special about Anthea's phone, it's not like he didn't have a smartphone himself…

(…it's just that he didn't really bother to learn how to use it other than for calls, texts and emails.)

"It's much easier this way." Anthea added, "Don't have to bother with _papers."_

(And she'd said the word 'papers' as if she'd meant 'unbearable pain'.)

"We'll see…" Mycroft accepted, skeptically.

He _began _to_ try_ to _attempt_ to access the smartphone's unlimited information by clicking at the buttons that were impractically small for human fingers.

"I'll just get these out of the way for you." Anthea said as she started to reach across to lift the folder of papers off Mycroft's lap in what was truly the most professional and polite (and _platonic!)_ manner possible.

And, of course, that's when two security guards decided burst in.

"What _is_ it, _'gentlemen'?"_ Mycroft snapped, standing up to confront the intruders who dared interrupt his important work…

…which really just made the scene look _worse_ than it already did.

Anthea quickly sat back down in her seat, setting the folder on the lamptable beside the armchair.

The guards (gloved on both their hands _and_ feet to minimize noise) addressed Anthea instead of Mycroft.

"Ma'am, there are no women allowed in this facility." One declared, "You're going to need to leave."

"I invited her here." Mycroft countered.

"We understand that, sir, and we're sorry." The other guard apologized, "But we cannot allow women—even _escorts_—into the building."

Anthea rose from the chair, opening her mouth to speak but Mycroft spoke first.

To her.

"Regrettably those two are right." He sighed, "I'm afraid you _will_ have to leave, my dear."

"I'm sorry?" Anthea inquired, taken aback.

"No, no sorries." Mycroft lamented, shaking his head mournfully, "The fault is all mine. We've been caught. I should have been more careful."

"_Well."_ Anthea sniffed, catching onto the game, "This is the last time I'll be taking _you_ as a client, _Mr. Holmes._ I'm require_ discretion_ for my profession and _this"_ she gestured at the two guards, "is_ not_ discreet. _It's over." _

Stomping her foot, she spun on her heels to leave.

"…but Elisabeth—!" Mycroft called after her hopelessly.

"Good day, _'my dear'."_ Anthea responded curtly as she, the 'escort' was escorted out of the room and the Diogenes Club.

When she and the guards were gone, Mycroft sat back down to continue his work.

But to be polite and professional, first he sent a text apologizing to Anthea for the incident.

_I had to. _

_I didn't recognize those guards. _

_Perhaps they were new…or perhaps they work for our target or one of his associates. _

_I couldn't risk them knowing what we're working on. _

_I require discretion for my profession. _

_Apologies._

_-MH _

Feeling _polite_ and _professional,_ Mycroft set down his phone on the lamptable beside him.

Surely Anthea would forgive once she got the text message (it was her _job,_ after all)…

…and then Mycroft felt Anthea's smartphone buzz under him on the chair cushion he sat on, left behind after Anthea's (forced and dramatic) exit.

Phones 'much easier' his _ass!_

(Because he was_ sitting_ on the smartphone. Ha. Ha. _Ha.)_

How was Mycroft going to contact his employee now?

…maybe he'd send her a letter.

Handwritten (not typed) on _paper._

* * *

The plan had been for Molly to transfer (the paralyzed and hopefully also unconscious) Jim to a patient room somewhere else in St. Bartholomew's where she could tend to him (restrained to a hospital bed) as long as she felt like keeping him her little pet (or until she decided to _euthanize_ him).

The amount of time didn't matter to Moran…as long as his employer had time to 'tie up loose ends' in London (and all of the United Kingdom, for that matter) and move (escape) to safer location in the Middle East where he would start a 'business'.

And whatever James's plans were once he got there didn't matter to Moran since he wasn't going to leave London anytime soon _(especially_ not to go back to the Middle East).

All he needed to do was get Jim's smartphone and deliver it to James.

(And _why_ did James need Jim's phone upon leaving the country? Jim's terrorist contacts, maybe? Continue Jim's criminal activities now that he couldn't make money legitimately?—_no._ Moran knew better than to speculate. This wasn't his business.)

Now he was in the hospital.

Moran expected Molly to have moved Jim out of the morgue by now but since he couldn't find him in any of the rooms (and he_ had_ looked—_everywhere) _Moran was back down in the morgue.

But instead of finding Molly (hard at work) and Jim (her _other_ full-time job—or would autopsies be the 'second' job at this point?) in the cold room, Moran entered to see Lestrade checking around, probably there for _(mostly) _the same reason.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Lestrade demanded as soon as he saw that he wasn't alone.

He stood by the empty table and Moran stood in the door way.

"I could ask you the same question." Moran returned.

"I have a right to be here." Lestrade announced, "I'm a police officer."

"Show me your badge then." Moran requested.

"I'm off duty." Lestrade shrugged.

"Then what are you doing here?" Moran asked.

"I could ask you the same question." Lestrade returned.

Seeing that this discussion would provide no insights into the motivations of either man, the two fell silent, instead staring eachother down suspiciously.

They finally stopped when a third man walked in through the other door, stopped, looked at them and then asked in confusion, _"What are you doing here?" _

"I could ask you the same question." Lestrade and Moran both returned as quickly as possible, trying to be the first to say it.

The 'harmony' of the two voices was…_eerie._ It unnerved the man.

_Who were these people and what were they doing here? _

"I _work _here." The man declared, offended, "I'm the manager."

"Oh." Lestrade accepted.

"Right." Moran accepted.

"You two need to leave." The manager told them.

He couldn't just have unauthorized strangers in the morgue—especially with his employee missing.

_Where was that Hooper woman anyway?_

Nodding, Lestrade and Moran turned and filed out of the morgue, still wondering just _what_ the other was doing down there.

* * *

Sherlock was _alive._

That much Jim _knew._

_(Hoped.) _

Jim highly doubted that Molly had saved his life without his permission…

…but been unable to save _Sherlock's_ without _his._

And Molly had made a little bit of big deal about not 'taking sides' between Jim and Sherlock.

If she'd only wanted to save Jim (so she could run away on some Bonnie and Clyde style romance or whatever someone like her would imagine) then she wouldn't have _paralyzed him and trapped him in the morgue. _

_That_ meant Sherlock was _alive._

(—At least if you used 'Jim logic' which Jim _did_ use.)

And Jim _was oh-so very thankful_ to Molly for saving his dear Sherlock so that the two (three) of them could suffer and enjoy their boring and interesting lives together.

_So_ oh-so very thankful that Jim was being_ nice_ to Molly.

_Oh-so very_ nice.

And _that _meant Jim was _up to something. _

That much Molly _knew._

_(Knew._ She knew it for a _fact._ There was really no other logical explanation.)

Which left Molly to figure out just _what_ that 'something' _was._

Probably some kind of revenge against her for _paralyzing him and trapping him in the morgue_—which inadvertently led to them being kidnapped and taken to Baskerville from where they had barely escaped from—which inadvertently led to them being lost in the woods.

So, basically, this was all Molly's fault.

And there was _no way_ Jim was as_ happy_ about this as he was _pretending _to be.

Thinking and _over-_thinking to herself as she tread through the moor beneath the trees and the darkening skies (it was getting _cold)_ after Jim, Molly's pace slowed.

Every so often she had to run to catch up to Jim before she was left behind, lost and alone in the dark forest.

"Awfully quiet back there, _my sweet."_ Jim hummed after some silence.

So 'sweet' was the new thing he was saying now.

Molly felt her heart racing (—and _not_ in a good way).

Jim was never serious when he used petnames, nicknames, terms-of-endearment or any kind of title at all (even and _especially _familial ones).

He didn't respect _given_ status or authority.

Even individual had to prove themselves individually.

However, Jim_ did_ seem to respect actual names (first, last, full).

Molly had been using this as his 'tell' for awhile now to try to attempt to gage how much Jim was lying at any given moment.

She wasn't sure if it actually _worked…_

…but she _hoped_ it did because it was all she had.

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized, rushing to get closer to him as she had fallen behind.

He glanced behind when he heard her near.

She knew he didn't like it when she apologized.

And she knew it wasn't _wise_ to provoke Jim's anger…

…but she wanted to make him _honest._

(And she really _did_ too, but that was just wishful thinking—at least she could get him to (temporarily) stop lying, though…_hopefully.)_

"Forgiven, _my sweet."_ Jim responded _not_ taking the 'bait'.

She'd have to do better than that.

It was difficult to get Jim Moriarty worked up.

But it was so easy to get Molly Hooper worked up.

He could practically hear her heart beating and her head pounding as she tried to 'deduce' just _what_ he was _up to. _

Molly probably loved him but she sure didn't _trust_ him.

And any kindness she received from him was taken as 'the calm before the storm'.

Jim gazed up at the sky

Dark, obscured by leaves and branches…

…but still starry.

_Clear. _

And there were lights up ahead, too.

If Molly was stupid enough to think that Jim was stupid enough to 'wander aimlessly' (as she had put it) around the Dartmoor moor that was her 'problem' (as_ he_ had put it).

Although Jim wasn't sure exactly where he was, those flashing lights indicated _people _and so Jim had been leading himself and Molly towards _people._

Hopefully, they'd get there before it got too dark and too cold.

Hopefully they didn't step on a mine along the way.

* * *

221A, B (and C) were quiet now that John had (temporarily?) moved to his sister's house and Sherlock was…gone.

Quiet and_ lonely. _

Sure, Mrs. Hudson met up with John for lunch once a week or so in the café next door, but other than that she lived in isolation once again.

(The first time in 'isolation' being after her now ex (now _dead)_ husband had been extradited back to the United States and executed for the murder he'd committed (which Mrs. Hudson had known _nothing_ about when she married him and helped him change his identity—_honest.))_

…Well, there _was_ that friendly Australian construction worker that lived down the street and often offered to help Mrs. Hudson with housework that her husband (dead) or her boys (moved and…gone)_ would_ have done for the old (no_—older middle aged_) lady had they still lived with her.

But apparently that man had relocated as well since Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen him in a week.

And so here she was alone.

And lonely.

…Maybe she'd go visit her sister after all.

Surely England wouldn't fall while she was away.

* * *

The 'friendly' _(sneaky)_ Australian 'construction worker' (hitman) had indeed relocated…

…to the British government's (Mycroft Holmes's) comfortable bed-and-breakfast in the countryside (secret prison).

He'd already been on his way out of town when a 'friendly _(sneaky) _British 'travel agent' (Sherlock Holmes) had told him he'd be taking a train instead of a plane.

Now, the hitman had 'politely' told this _mysterious man_ (Sherlock Holmes with dyed hair) 'no thank you, sir' ('fuck off, asshole') and when the 'travel agent' had pulled a gun so did the 'construction worker'.

"I've gotta gun too, mate." he had warned, flashing the_ tool _he'd pulled from his toolbox, "So how do you want this to go down?"

"My _'friends'_ will explain." Sherlock had stated in response.

And then the mass of 'normal civilians' who'd just been walking down the street minding 'their own business' (everybody else's business) surrounded the 'construction worker', flashing 'tools' of their own out from the black suit-jackets.

They _politely _escorted the Australian to King's Cross station and onto a train.

"Where are you taking me?" he had asked.

Sherlock hadn't answered.

(No, he'd just sat across from the Australian on the train, wanting _so very badly_ to throw him out of a window _(multiple times) _for even _considering_ shooting Mrs. Hudson, but conceding to glare at him instead.)

Luckily, Mycroft had always been the better conversationalist.

(He'd had to 'relocate' as well and move his...personal business out of the Diogenes Club and out of the city all together, to somewhere much more secluded and discreet_-a secret prison in the middle of nowhere. _How scenic.)

"Where am I?" The Australian tried again.

He was tied to a chair in a dark room that's only window was a two-way mirror that people were probably staring at him through on the other side of the wall.

And _speaking _of the wall:

_(Sherlock. sherlock. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. Sherlock. sHeRlOcK. Sherlock. ShErLoCk. Sherlock.)_

"Sorry about the…wallpaper." Mycroft apologize as he strolled into interrogation room, "The last 'guest' got a bit _bored _and we didn't really have a chance to tidy up in here yet."

"Where am I?" The Australian asked again.

"Why, you're where all good little children go." Mycroft smiled, "We put them on trains and shipped them off to the country during The War. Kept them _safe."_

"Huh?"

"…I can keep _you_ safe, too—_If _you tell me what I want to know."

"…okay…"

"But if you _don't_…then it'll be the _'Blitz'_ for you, sir."

"…What are you_ talking_ about, man?"

The Australian gaped up at Mycroft confusedly.

Mycroft sighed, falsely polite smile fading.

This interrogation thing was no_ fun_ when the interrogatee didn't _play along._

'The Blitz'—

(…because of the London bombing during World War Two?)

(…because 'the pits' is an expression for an unpleasant situation?)

—_Come on,_ it's _clever! _

_Jim_ would have gotten it…

Too bad he was dead.

Mycroft sort of missed him.

Not as a _'friend',_ of course, but as an enemy.

(He was, after all, the only one Mycroft knew who liked to talk about the same things he did—_Sherlock_ sure as hell wasn't going to have a conversation _(digression that had absolutely nothing to do with the current problem_) about history, literature, et cetera, _et cetera...). _

Sherlock missed Jim too.

Not as a _'friend',_ of course, but as an enemy.

(He was 'Jim' now, because now there were_ two_ James Moriartys (and apparently there always_ had_ been) so Sherlock and Mycroft had to distinguish _them somehow._)

It was much better having an interesting enemy than a _boring brother_ who blabbed on about irrelevant topics and couldn't interrogate even a stupid prisoner to get the information they needed.

Having seen enough through the two-way window, Sherlock rolled his eyes and entered the interrogation room.

Mycroft turned and raised an eyebrow.

The Australian gazed past him at Sherlock pleadingly (he had thought Sherlock was bad before but after getting a history lesson about the second World War he'd decided that Mycroft was _worse). _

"He obviously knows nothing." Sherlock commented, "Stop wasting our time, _Mycroft."_

"Thank you for your input, _Sherlock."_ Mycroft feigned.

"Thank you." The Australian agreed, "I still don't even know why I'm here."

"You're here," Sherlock began, "because you—"

But before Sherlock could disdainfully list the crimes that the Australian had committed (or at least the ones Sherlock cared about, which had to do with a certain landlady and a certain consulting criminal) he was interrupted.

"Wait a minute…" The Australian sputtered, _"You're _Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes…" Sherlock affirmed, "…Your _point?" _

"But you're supposed to be _dead!" _The Australian exclaimed.

"I'll ask again…" Sherlock growled, not bothering with Mycroft's false warmness or even his normal detached coldness, "your _point?" _

Sherlock was quickly losing patience with this hitman, with _everything. _

This was really meant to be a _quick _job.

_Step One:_ dismantle Jim Moriarty's criminal 'web' by apprehending (or _killing)_ his most dangerous and/or powerful contacts.

_Step Two:_ come back to life.

_Easy. _

…or at least it _should _have been.

(And it _would _have been had Sherlock been able to get Jim's phone. Then he would have had everyone he wanted (dead or alive) by their phone numbers. But a search of the morgue (and then the entire hospital) found no phone—James must have somehow gotten it.)

But now there were_ two_ James Moriartys (and apparently there always _had _been) and so now the job was…

_Step One:_ dismantle Jim Moriarty's criminal 'web' by apprehending (or _killing)_ his most dangerous and/or powerful contacts.

_Step Two:_ find James Moriarty, apprehend (or _kill)_ him and obtain his keycode.

_Step Three_: take all of_ both_ James Moriartys' money (and other assets) and 'donate' to the British government (Mycroft Holmes).

_Step Four: _use said keycode for world peace or world domination _or whatever the hell_ Mycroft wanted to do with it (Sherlock didn't really care).

_Step Five:_ …and finally _(FINALLY)_ come back to life.

_Not _easy.

"My point is…" The Australian explained, "That I'm supposed to _shoot _that Hudson lady if you're alive."

Sherlock all but slapped his forehead.

Was this man really that stupid!

"I_ told_ you, Mycroft, the man doesn't know anything." Sherlock reiterated, "We're wasting our time with him so you should just go ahead and detain him with the general population of prisoners before I decide to _execute _him."

The Australian gulped.

Mycroft chuckled.

"Oh, _baby brother."_ He chided, "You're judgment clouds when you get impatient, frustrated…_sentimental. _If you'd _listened,_ if you'd _paid attention,_ you'd have realized that this man just told us _everything_ we need to know."

Sherlock snorted.

"If you got 'everything' from that then _you _need to raise your expectations." He scoffed.

"No,_ you_ need to _think." _Mycroft countered, "He said that he's meant to kill Mrs. Hudson if you're alive. Do you think he's going to do that for free?"

"Hell no." The Australian declared, answering Mycroft's hypothetical question for Sherlock.

Mycroft smirked.

"_See?"_ he continued, "It was all over the papers. 'Richard Brook' _dead_—driven to suicide by the great fraud detective, Sherlock Holmes—_also_ dead, _also_ driven to suicide by his own lies."

"Your point?" Sherlock repeated.

"_Think."_ Mycroft instructed.

And so Sherlock _did._

He did what Sherlock Holmes does.

He turned-off his emotions so that his computer (brain) could actually function and he could actually _work. _

He _thought._

"The assassin would only expect payment for killing Mrs. Hudson…" Sherlock realized, "…if the person who hired him is still alive. That means _Jim_ Moriarty didn't hire him. James did."

"—or someone on behalf of either of them." Mycroft added, "Who would be connected to_ both_ of them."

"_Right."_ Sherlock agreed, nodding at Mycroft and then turning to Australian, "So who was it?"

"I'm not telling you who hired me!" The Australian barked, "I'm a professional!"

"You'll sit in prison the rest of your life if you don't." Mycroft threatened.

"I'll take that over what'll happen to me if I snitch." The Australian laughed, "It's safer in prison."

He grinned, folding his arms triumphantly…

…until he saw Sherlock and Mycroft smiling down at him.

"_James."_ The brothers grinned, nodding at each other triumphantly, "It was James."

The Australian grimaced.

_How did they know?  
_

Were they _magic _or something?

Or just_ psychic? _

"Now all we need is to _find_ him." Mycroft decided.

"_No."_ Sherlock disagreed, "Searching is a waste of time. He could be anywhere. We need to make him come to us. We need to get his _attention…"_

* * *

Using their cellphones as flashlights (that were quickly running out of battery), Jim and Molly continued through the forest.

Hand in hand.

Holding hands, Jim had decided, was an excellent way to take Molly's pulse (and see just how scared she really was) without have to slow down.

He was surprised she hadn't exploded by now, the way her blood was pumping.

Her hand was sweating, just a bit too, but she didn't let go.

She _could_ have.

She could have wrenched herself free and run away into the woods and Jim would probably never find her (would he even _try?)._

She could have gone _free._

But she _didn't._

That was the funny thing about her.

She was kind of like a deer frozen in front of a car's headlights—afraid to go forward or turn back.

Afraid to_ move. _

And very, _very _confused in front of that complicated machine, the car.

"Watch your step." Jim warned as they finally approached the edge of the forest, "There's a _minefield_ out here, somewhere…we wouldn't want to get _hurt."_

Molly nodded in response (although Jim could hardly see her).

Was she really too afraid to even _talk?_

They'd been alone in the woods, with no witnesses and were now nearing a place where there would probably be people.

Would he really wait until _now_ to do something (whatever she thought it would be) to her?

Honestly, Molly!

_Think!_

They continued in silence until Molly finally stopped, pulling (no more than just a gentle tug, of course) Jim by the hand so that he would stop as well and turn to face her.

Their free hands held their phones, the (second to) only source of light (the other being the blinking in the distance) in the woods, which illuminated their faces quite…_eerily._

"Jim…" Molly began, taking a deep breath.

"Yeah?" he allowed neutrally, neither sincere or insincere.

He wanted to see just _what _she was _up to _with this.

"I want to apologize." Molly declared, matter-of-factly as she gathered her courage, "…I want to say that I'm sorry for everything I've done—"

"You mean drugging me so I couldn't move?" Jim interpreted, raising an eyebrow, "And keeping me _prisoner,_ warehoused with all those dead bodies like I was one of them, like I was _nothing?"_

_Ouch._

That would sting.

Molly's conscience was no singing cricket; it was a poison wasp forever stabbing at her poor, bleeding heart.

Jim pitied her.

Jim laughed at her.

…but not right_ now._

This was supposed to be a serious, heartfelt, _emotional_ moment between them and—

—oh _look._ Molly was talking again.

"Yes." She sighed, sadly, "…and I'm so,_ so_ sorry for that. It was horrible of me to do that to you and if you're angry, if I _hurt _you—"

_Now_ Jim laughed.

"Oh, please." He snorted, "As if _you_ could ever hurt _me."_

"…So you're _not_ angry?" Molly inquired, voice and face just bursting with hope in that cute way that reminded Jim of kitten with cancer that still believed its life would be saved…or something like that.

"Of course not!" Jim dismissed, "How could I ever get 'angry' at face like that."

…Wide-eyed, like a bushbaby like that obsessive-compulsive school counselor on 'Glee' who wore the knit sweaters and was still a virgin at 38(or however old she was)—_did_ _she ever lose her virginity?_ He'd stopped watching after he'd stopped being 'Jim from IT'…

"Good." Molly nodded, "…Because I'd do it again."

"…What?" Jim questioned, in a rare moment of genuine _surprise._

"Even though I _am _sorry and I _do _feel awful about it…" Molly explained, "…I'd still do it again. I'd save your life again _and _I'd paralyze you again."

"And_ why_ is _that…"_ Jim asked, then adding, _"…my sweet?"_ to balance out his surprise by unnerving her just as much as she was unnerving him.

"Because…" Molly said, releasing her hand from his and stepping away from him_, "…it had to be done._ I had to stop you from killing."

"You didn't have to—"

"_Yes I did._ I didn't want you to_ die_…but I don't want _anyone else_ to die, either. Too many people already have. Because of _you._ I won't let that happen anymore."

Jim laughed again.

_Cackled. _

"And _how,"_ he scoffed, between snickers, "do _you_ intend to do _that?"_

"By making you _promise."_ Molly stated, barely above a whisper, "I know you keep your promises. It's why we're here."

It was _true…_

_(…mostly.) _

And so, basically, this was all Jim's fault.

Which was _also_ true…

_(…mostly.) _

"I do keep my promises." Jim confirmed, "But you can't _make_ me promise."

"I can." Molly insisted.

Her voice was sure, but oh she was _shaking._

And it wasn't the _cold_ (she was_ used_ to that).

And it wasn't Jim (she was used to _that, _too).

"Prove it." Jim challenged.

"There is a minefield." Molly informed (although Jim already knew (they _both _did)).

"…Your point?"

Jim raised an eyebrow.

Molly pointed.

"It's right over there."

"…I'll ask again. _Your point?" _

"If you don't promise me now—promise me that you won't _ever_ kill again…then I'll step on the mine."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"_Sure."_

"I _will."_

"Go right ahead then, darling, be my guest."

"You're in range. We'll _both_ die."

"So? You do remember that I _want_ to die."

That was a lie.

Jim's purpose in life had been restored once he'd 'deduced' that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, _also_ still alive.

…but _Molly_ didn't know that.

Would she tell him _now?_

Admit the _truth_ to get him to _promise?_

Give up Sherlock in exchange for all the lives she wanted to save?

"Alright then…" Molly conceded, "If that's what it takes, if that's the only way…"

She started towards the minefield (signposts visible but unreadable in the dark).

Jim jerked but held himself still before actually reaching out to pull (and _far more_ than a just gentle tug) her back.

There was _no way_ she was going to do it.

_No way. _

But Molly was _dangerously close…_

(Like she _always _was.)

"If it's the only way, it's the only way." Jim shrugged, "You do what you must."

"I will." Molly repeated, continuing towards the field of buried bombs.

"I'll even go with you." Jim added, hurrying after her, "—not to _heaven,_ of course. But I'll at least walk you home so we can _make sure_ I'm in range."

Molly nodded in response (although Jim could hardly see her).

His free hand found hers again and so together, using their cellphones as flashlights, they walked towards the minefield.

This was really _stupid._

Jim had just survived _suicide,_ just survived _Baskerville_—to get himself _blown up?_

Sure, Molly really wasn't going to do it but…

…_but…_

…what if she _did?_

They were right at the edge of the forest where the field began; probably less than a foot away from the first bomb.

In the phonelight and the moonlight and the starlight, Jim and Molly could even see the blackened, grassless clearing where the mine had exploded when Dr. Frankland had stepped on it fleeing from Sherlock, John and Lestrade.

"…almost there…" Molly muttered, a taunt almost but completely implied because it didn't sound in her voice.

Was she _serious?_

Was she _really_ going to do this?

Jim hated playing chicken.

And there was no _convenient_ phone call from Irene Adler to save him now (and he _had_ checked—checked _both _of their phones _multiple times_ for a call or a text to distract Molly with.)

Jim stopped.

"You'd _kill yourself_…you'd _really_ kill yourself?" Jim asked, "Just to make sure_ I_ die too?"

"You did it to Sherlock." Molly reasoned.

"That didn't work." Jim reminded, "I'm still alive."

"But he's dead." Molly lied, "…and even if you manage to survive this too, I won't have to live to see you hurt anymore people."

"You're _bluffing."_ Jim called, "You won't do it. All the times I _offered _to kill you, all the times you _swore _that you _didn't _want to die—you can't convince me now that you do—_especially_ now that your life's gotten much more _exciting._ Sorry, babe, don't buy it—"

"I don't care." Molly interrupted, "I'm going to do it…_or you're going to promise." _

She walked towards the field.

"My _god, _Molly…" Jim groaned, "Just _stop it._ Stop playing this stupid game—"

"I'm _not _playing." Molly refused, "I'm _serious,_ Jim. And I _will _do it."

And she was walking, _still walking…_

"Get away from the damn minefield!" Jim yelled, "_Now!"_

He thought the shouted orders would scare her into obedience as they normally did, but Molly didn't move.

"No." Molly shook her head.

_Walking…_

"You want me to_ make_ you?" Jim guessed, _"Fine._ I _will._ What my sweet Molly _wants,_ my sweet Molly _gets."_

He started towards her.

Molly darted away from him, threatening to run to minefield if he moved any closer.

"You know what you have to do." she said, looking him _dead_ in the eyes.

And Jim sighed.

* * *

Lestrade, sitting in his car idly, toyed with the old radio until he found the frequency that received police transmissions.

'…_all units to the scene of the explosion…'_

He started the engine.

_Go. _

Lestrade sped through the London traffic all the way to where a small school (and not just any school—that school where that serial killer had been shot two years ago!) had blown up.

The (on duty (not suspended)) police had already set up a perimeter with tape, blocking Lestrade (who'd leapt out of his vehicle and sprinted to the scene of the crime) from getting any closer to the wreckage that remained of the destroyed building.

_Hmm…what to do now?_

Maybe if Lestrade just sauntered in past the line like he was supposed to be there nobody would notice him or remember that he'd been suspended.

Lestrade cautiously crept (looking back and forth and over his shoulder) towards the university.

He'd just lifted up the police-tape to duck under when—

"_What are you doing here?" _

Lestrade turned to see Sally Donovan stomping towards him.

"I'm _investigating."_ Lestrade stated.

"You're suspended." Sally reminded, "You can't be here. You're going to get us all fired. We're not even allowed to be _talking _to you!"

"This is ridiculous." Lestrade grumbled, "You know Sherlock was innocent."

"I don't know anything." Sally dismissed, "Except that I did what I had to."

"Oh, really?" Lestrade doubted, "And I guess you did what you _'had'_ to when you sent me all the way to Baskerville looking for Molly Hooper."

"_Who?"_ Sally asked, taken aback and genuinely confused.

"The woman whose phone number I told you to track!" Lestrade answered, "The one who works down at the morgue!"

Sally blinked as if she had _no clue_ who Lestrade was talking about.

And she honestly _didn't._

"I didn't even know whose phone number that was." Sally said, "And I shouldn't have even traced it for you. But I told you the correct location."

"No, you didn't!" Lestrade snapped, "Nobody can trace a phone to Baskerville. I went there and they _told_ me."

"The signal bounced off all the towers in the area and then _disappeared."_ Sally explained, "It wasn't a stretch to figure out where it had gone. The only place that _can't _be traced in Dartmoor is Baskerville."

"Well I don't know what happened," Lestrade conceded, "But she wasn't there when I got there."

Sally was about to reply to her (former) boss when she glanced past him to see _another_ intruder enter into her crime scene.

"Hey, you!" she shouted, jogging past Lestrade over to this new man, "What are you doing here?"

He lifted the tape and marched towards the exploded (now only a shell of a) building, past Sally.

"Stop!" She ordered, following him.

Lestrade followed them both, running to catch up.

"Are you _deaf?"_ he yelled after the man, "She's a police officer and she's talking you! You'd better listen, _'sir'."_

Moran stopped and turned around to face Lestrade and Sally.

"Who _are _you?" Sally demanded.

"You again!" Lestrade exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

"You _know_ him?" Sally inquired, looking Moran up and down and then turning to Lestrade.

"Yeah, he was poking around at the morgue earlier today." Lestrade told her.

"Let me see some identification." Sally requested, turning back to Moran and eyeing him suspiciously.

Moran said nothing and did nothing.

He just waited for a third (on duty (not suspended (and totally corrupt))) police officer to stride up to the scene.

Wearing a suit instead of a uniform, James's 'inside man' at Scotland Yard seemed very _authoritative._

"Stand down, Sergeant Donovan." He instructed, and then gestured to Moran, "He's fine."

"Yes sir." Sally agreed, grudgingly.

"He, however…" the 'inside man' added, now gesturing to Lestrade, "…has to go."

"But—" Lestrade attempted.

"You heard him." Sally shrugged.

"…_Yes sir."_ Lestrade sighed, turning to leave.

Just when things were getting interesting, he'd been kicked out of the 'party'.

Lestrade trudged away, back to the boredom of his car…

…where he sat, watched and waited.

He was going to find out just who this new guy 'playing detective' at the morgue and at a crime scene was.

But for now, he'd listen to the police-scanner…_or maybe the radio…_

* * *

After her long train ride to Wales, Mrs. Hudson finally was able to relax by collapsing onto her sister's couch and switching on the television.

'…_breaking news, a small college in London has mysteriously exploded. No casualties, thankfully, as school is out for the summer…'_

Mrs. Hudson almost had a heart-attack when she'd heard the reporter's statement.

She'd left London…and a building had blown up.

She'd left England…_and England was falling._

* * *

**I'm sure you can guess what Jim decided since this story isn't labeled 'complete' because the main characters have died by explosion.**

**And why is Mrs. Hudson part Welsh?****  
**

**The same reason everyone always calls her _Mrs._ Hudson and never by her first name.  
**

**Her first name is something Welsh that's long, really complicated and difficult to pronounce.  
**

**And she's a no-nonsense old (later middle-aged) lady who just doesn't bother with it. ****  
**

**lol.  
**

**Sorry the chapter was bit short lol.**_  
_

**And took so long lol.  
**

**My motivation is so arrogance driven lol.  
**

**Reviews=arrogance.  
**

**My problem is not that I don't think I'm amazing...it's just that I'm afraid _others_ don't realize how awesome and genius I am!  
**

**But I guess that isn't really _self-_confidence, after all...  
**

**...lol.  
**

**Review and I'll love you forever.  
**

**I'll maybe even update, too.  
**


	6. Vacation Investigation

**'Kophktehkifdhoffgffdehhbjlo' is _right,_ 'Toby' the reviewer. **

**That is Mrs. Hudson's ridiculously complicated Welsh name that she refuses to use.  
**

**Thank you for putting it out there like that and embarrassing poor Kophktehkifdhoffgffdehhbjlo-I mean_ Mrs. Hudson. _  
**

**And thank you to all others who reviewed last chapter, too (in order of when the review was sent):  
**

**Guest-thanks for mentioning the Wales, thing.  
**

**lesser mortal-you know I love our many conversations..._Elisabeth *winks*_  
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**MissusGages-love you, thanks for reviewing!  
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**My Beautiful Ending-ooh! You like 'Red Eye' too instant love from me to you!  
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**Shay-of-Awe-thank you for being being such a friendly, caring, journalist (and therapist), Miss Couric. :)  
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**Short enough list that I can give you all a in-chapter 'hello' and 'thank you so much'. I love you all.  
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**...And thank you, too, of course to Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat for her eloquence and hilarity.  
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**I hope you enjoy my 'eloquence and hilarity' in this chapter:  
**

* * *

Boom.

A mine had exploded like a supernova—bright, loud and then black.

But nobody had died.

It was just a distraction…

(For Doctor Stapleton who now believed that Jim and Molly had gone and gotten themselves blown up in the minefield after escaping Baskerville.)

* * *

Sherlock.

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. _

Jim _would have_ been content to be blown to bits by a bomb buried in the ground.

Jim would have been content to _die._

—if not for _Sherlock._

Sherlock was _alive._

…and so_ Jim_ wanted to be alive.

He wanted to be _just like Sherlock…_

_Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

He wanted to be _with_ Sherlock, again, and finish their Game.

For _real,_ this time.

And so Jim had made the promise.

The stupid, stupid promise.

The promise not to _kill_ anyone anymore.

All for Sherlock.

_Only_ for Sherlock.

_The things Jim did for love…_

* * *

Molly had_ not_ been bluffing.

She'd been shaking, heart pounding and the only reason she hadn't _peed in her pants _was because she hadn't had anything to drink (or eat) in almost twenty-four hours.

She didn't want to die.

She'd_ never_ wanted to die.

But she _was_ willing to if it would save other people's lives (other people more important than her, _better _than her—the kind of people who wouldn't so stupidly, so_ selfishly_ save the life of a criminal just because…_Just Because.)_

(And the only _'comfort' _had been that she'd known that had she stepped on the mine, '_it'_ would have been _quick.) _

Luckily, she didn't have to _die._

_Jim_ didn't have to die.

_People_ didn't have to die.

All because Jim had _promised._

And now Molly wondered just _who_ Jim had made that promise _for._

To save his _own_ life?

…or to save _hers?_

Neither made any sense.

Jim hadn't _wanted _to live.

And Molly could only ever _dream _about the day he'd give up killing just for _her._

_So why…?_

_Why_ had he promised?

_No reason? _

_Just Because? _

Molly didn't think so.

And the only thing (reason, because) she _could_ think of was that Jim had _figured it out. _

Jim knew Sherlock was still alive.

He wouldn't _confirm _this, of course, and neither would _she._

But Molly knew that Jim would go after Sherlock as soon as he had the chance.

And so she was going to make sure he _didn't._

_Once again,_ Molly Hooper was going to try to stop Jim Moriarty.

* * *

When they heard the deafening sound and felt their cars shake(—even more than normal), the parked paramours exited their vehicles to search for the source of the disturbance.

It was too dark to see the cloud of smoke rising from the trees but they all knew what had happened.

This was _Dartmoor,_ there was a _minefield._

Some stupid animal had probably got itself blown up by stepping on the wrong patch of dirty.

…or maybe it was Baskerville doing another _experiment._

Either way, it didn't bother them and so they went back to their cars.

* * *

There was no logical reason for John to go back to Baker Street.

He barely had any stuff there (since it had been furnished (and cluttered) already when he'd arrived) h and it was very, every _messy._

John had been trained (almost to the point of instinct) in the army to keep things (gun, home, mind) _clean._

And so _that's _why John was staying at his sister's flat.

To clean up after her.

He'd done that their entire childhood (and even into adulthood) and she _used_ to have a wife for that…

(And John_ used_ to have someone else to clean up after, too.)

…but she didn't (and _he _didn't) anymore and so John was there.

And he was earning his keep and keeping busy by doing his new (old) _job_ of cleaning up when he heard a knock at the door.

John finished stacking the (dirty (and very much appreciated)) magazines that his sister had 'accidently' _(purposely)_ left scattered on top of every available surface (floor, coffee table, couch, shelf, chair, television) in the living room (just to annoy John) before rushing over to the front door.

He'd already opened it with his free hand when he realized that he was still holding the magazines in his other one.

"…Hi…John…" Lestrade greeted, awkwardly.

And he _tried,_ he tried _so hard_ not to stare at the _totally classy_ (pornographic) images of women John held.

But he failed.

"Oh! These aren't mine." John declared quickly, "…they're my sister's."

"She's got good taste, then." Lestrade joked (but completely meant) to ease the tension.

"Yeah, I know—she's been teasing me with her girlfriends since school." John agreed, still embarrassed, "Sorry about that, though. I was just tidying up the place a bit so it's good I've got company to appreciate my work before Harry comes back and trashes the place again—which I guess she_ can_ do, since it_ is_ her place, after all…"

He trailed off once he realized he'd been rambling.

(But that was better than talking to _himself,_ he supposed…)

Lestrade smiled and nodded in agreement as if he hadn't noticed.

"Well, anyway…" he began, "I stopped by because I wanted to see if you could help me with something. You don't have to, if you're busy or anything but—"

"I'm not busy." John interrupted, "What do you need?"

"Molly Hooper." Lestrade stated—then hearing how that had sounded, he added, "She's been…_missing _for the past two days. She's not at work or at home and I can't seem to get a hold of her."

"Sure she's not just on holiday or something?" John inquired.

"I don't know _where_ she is." Lestrade answered, "And nobody else that I've talked to does, either."

Not that Lestrade had talked to many people about this.

Just Molly's landlord and then the same supervisor who'd kicked him (and the suspicious stranger) out of the morgue yesterday.

"Why are you investigating this, anyway?" John asked, "I thought you'd been suspended."

"Dunno." Lestrade admitted, with a shrug, "Guess I was bored and needed something to do…"

"I know _that _feeling." John sympathized with a chuckle.

Lestrade laughed too…

…but then there was that awkward silence where neither of them knew what to say next.

"…_so…"_ Lestrade started, tentatively, "…you wanna do some detective work, or something, then?"

John smiled.

* * *

"…Oh, god…They're not—they can't _really_ be—_are they…?"_

Molly stared in horror at the source of the flashing lights.

Jim grinned.

"Lights mean _civilization."_ He said, "Civilization means _man_—or, in _this_ case, _men."_

_Most_ of the parked cars in the secluded (if one could actually call the spot where everyone in Dartmoor went to_…(ahem)…_ 'park their cars' that) location had their headlights appropriately off…

…but then there was there was Mr. Selden and his belt.

"…and one _woman_, too, apparently." Jim added, gesturing to the blinking car.

A man _and _a woman's voice could be heard _'making polite conversation'_ inside.

He started up the hill towards it, Molly still gaping in disbelief until she finally hurried after him.

"What are you _doing?"_ she asked in an urgent whisper.

"Borrowing a car." Jim told her.

He reached the vehicle and knocked on the window.

It stopped rocking and the lights stopped flashing.

"Police." Jim called.

He stepped back and then waited a few moments for the confused, half-dressed couple to step out of the car and onto the grass.

"Police? What the hell is this about?" the man (known to the woman he was intimately involved with as only 'Mr. Selden') demanded, "Why aren't you harassing any of them?"

He motioned to the rows of parked cars in both directions, with both arms that Jim left undisturbed.

His unbelted pants dropped to the ground.

Hastily he bent to grab and resituate them.

The woman smoothed her dress, flustered confused.

She glanced around at Selden, Jim, the cars and then even over at Molly who watched the scene unfold in sympathetic shock.

"_Well,_ all the other cars've got homosexuals inside." Jim explained, "and what kind of cop would I be if I starting getting _prejudiced?..._now, which one of you is the whore?"

"Which one of us is the _what?"_ The woman cried.

"What kind of a question is that?" Selden shouted.

"Oh." Jim chuckled, looking the man up and down, "So it's you. Too old for the men who love boys and so you had to move on to desperate old women like her—"

"_Excuse me?"_ the woman shrilled.

"You're excused." Jim replied, and then turned back to Selden, "Prostitution's a serious charge, mate, I'm going to have to write you up…"

"But—" Selden attempted, quickly being interrupted.

"No buts." Jim countered, the muttering _" 'least not anymore…" _under his breath.

That's when Molly had seen (and heard) enough.

Jim was obviously going to steal this car.

(Molly was…_resigned _to that—she did have to get home to her pet cat, after all.)

But_ why_ was he dragging this out longer than necessary?

…oh _right._

He _enjoyed_ this (messing with people).

It was why the two of them were (still) 'together'.

Well, at least he wasn't going to kill these poor people who'd been so rudely interrupted…

Collecting herself with a deep breath, Molly stomped over to the car.

She'd just opened the driver's side door when Jim caught her hand.

"We're off-road, darling." He scoffed, "I'd like to see you_ try_ to drive on grass and rocks."

"I was _going_ to…" Molly murmured.

She let Jim slip past her and slide into the driver's seat of the vehicle, which was exactly what she'd wanted him to do.

Once Jim was safely (he was even buckled up—respect the little laws) inside the car, Molly rushed around to the other side to sit on the passenger's side.

Now it was Selden and his female 'friend' staring in horror.

"Hey!" Selden yelled, "What are you doing?"

Molly's breath caught, the guilt biting her again.

"I'm sorry!" she apologized.

But she got into car all the same.

(…She and Jim needed it.)

(…They weren't going to_ keep_ it, anyway, _were they?)_

(…The owner would_ probably_ get it back…_eventually,_ right?)

Before Molly had even shut the door, Jim was already pulling away from the makeshift parking place at an unsafe speed (—nevermind about that law thing).

Luckily, the keys were already in the ignition.

How convenient.

(And _obvious,_ really. Why else would the lights have been flashing if the car wasn't running?)

"Idiot deserved what he got, leaving his keys like that." Jim commented.

He was laughing as they drove away and Molly was holding her head in her hands, ashamedly.

Sure, this wasn't _technically _the_ first_ time she'd 'just happened' to be present while (and perhaps, maybe kind of even _participated _in) Jim 'burrowing' a car…

…but she'd never witnessed (helped) Jim steal a car that people had actually been_ inside_ at the time.

And she (having seen the looks on those people's faces) felt bad (terrible).

Molly knew she'd_ never_ understand how Jim could_ enjoy_ this.

At least Jim would never enjoy _killing_ again, that _had_ to count for _something._

If he kept his promise, that is...

_If._

Molly didn't like that word.

She leaned against the window glass and closed her eyes, trying to sleep after this _trying _ordeal.

Rather than listen to Jim describe the different ways that gay men parked their cars in city carparks when they _were _or _wanted to _'park their cars'.

Rather than think about _'if'._

* * *

When Molly awoke, she was back in London.

She wasn't sure exactly when she'd fallen asleep, but upon waking she realized that falling asleep probably hadn't been the best idea.

_Who knows_ what Jim could have done while she slept?

He could have crashed the car, he could have driven themto_ not_ London, he could have gotten revenge on her for saving his life and then paralyzing him.

He could have _left_ (her).

But when Molly awoke, she was back in London, sitting in an uncrashed car next to Jim.

And what a feeling it was to wake up slowly in a comfortably warm car just as she arrived home.

Feeling _safe._

_Deceptively_ safe.

They were stuck in traffic. Maybe it had been the honk or a siren that had startled her awake.

Molly opened her eyes, just a crack.

She wanted to see how long she could stare at Jim without him noticing that she had woken up.

She wanted to see if she could see who Jim was when he thought nobody could _see._

With only one hand on the steering-wheel, Jim _seemed_ relaxed.

But his fingers were tapping impatiently.

Suddenly, they stopped.

Jim turned to Molly, smiling lazily, all the energy in his eyes.

Then she heard the radio—_a newscaster's voice_—mumbling softly with the hum of the car.

They weren't stuck in traffic, they were parked, pulled up to the curb of some London street.

"It's about time." Jim greeted.

"…Oh, sorry…" Molly said, sitting up straight and turning to face him, "…how long was I out?"

"Do the math." Jim suggested, gesturing to the clock.

The digital numbers on the dashboard read 9:41.

Almost six hours.

He'd been waiting for her to wake up (how_ sweet)…_

…and he'd probably been watching her sleep, too (how _creepy(—_but sweet)), only to look away just when he knew she'd woken.

"What do we do now?" Molly asked.

"I thought_ you_ had a plan." Jim replied.

"I did." Molly confirmed, "But it was, um…_not what happened_. I don't think you would have liked very much anyway…"

"You never know." Jim shrugged, then adding, "You'd better do something about the security footage at the hospital, Molly, unless you want it on tape everything that happened down there."

Molly opened her mouth to speak but then quickly closed it.

She'd_ almost _said that Sherlock had told her that Mycroft was going to disable the security cameras in the morgue.

"…Okay." She said instead, "…but can't your brother just delete the footage or something?"

"You've heard from him?" Jim asked, skeptical but interested at the same time, "Because if you have, I'd really like to have a word with _my dear brother James…"_

…who Jim was sure _must_ have been captured by Mycroft by now.

"I haven't seen him since the day Sherlock died." Molly informed, "He said that he would have nothing to do with you anymore and that you were_ my_ problem now."

Jim rolled his eyes, snorting bitterly.

"How many times have I heard _that _one before." he dismissed, "He'll be back…"

"I need to go to work." Molly remembered, "I've been gone for almost three days with no explanation."

"Just quit." Jim suggested.

"I'm not going to _quit!"_ Molly exclaimed, as if the idea was _insane,_ "I've had that job for eight years now!"

"Yeah, and it _sucks."_ Jim responded, "I thought you wanted to elope, anyway. Wasn't that part of your _'plan'?"_

At first Molly had thought he was talking about the last flower…

...but then she realized that if Jim had known about that, then they probably wouldn't have been in this situation to begin with.

Molly _had_ wanted to 'elope'.

_Before._

But plans change.

That was back when Jim had still been plotting to kill Sherlock, but _now_ Sherlock was _'dead' _(as far as Jim 'knew' (as far as Molly knew)).

_Now _it wouldn't be _convenient_ to just abruptly leave the city,_ now _there was no _reason_ to.

And plans change.

"Plans change." Molly stated, "…and I'm not leaving London."

"Your _not?"_ Jim considered, "So you think you'll have your 'happy ending' _here?" _

"I'm not expecting a 'happy ending'." Molly countered, solemnly.

"_Oh,_ well then what kind of 'ending' _are _you _'expecting'?"_ Jim scoffed.

Molly ignored the implications of death and life his words.

"None at all." She said.

"Really?" Jim taunted, "Because, from the way you tried to keep me all to yourself after I 'died' and then got me to _promise _I wouldn't kill anybody anymore, it kinda seems to me like _you_ want to _'settle down'."_

Yeah right.

As if _Jim Moriarty_ would ever 'settle down'.

Molly knew better than that.

"…_no."_ she shook her head, "All I want is to live my life…and _stay alive."_

And was as far as Molly went in the 'verbal spar' that conversation.

Jim smirked.

If the words had bothered him, he didn't let it show…but she knew they hadn't _impressed _him because _he_ knew that she could do _better. _

"Go to work." He conceded.

"But what about _you?"_ Molly inquired, "What'll_ you_ do?"

"Don't worry about me, love, I'm sure I can survive a few hours without you." Jim chuckled, "I won't get into _too _much trouble."

"Jim, can you just _please_ meet me at my flat tonight?" Molly requested (begged), then adding another, _"Please."_ for good measure.

"Sure, why not?" Jim agreed.

"Okay." Molly accepted, with a nod, "I'll, uh, see you later then, I guess…"

"I guess..." he repeated, with a shrug, "But off to work with you, now. Run along."

He gestured past Molly to the sidewalk outside the car with a wave of his hand.

Molly glanced out the window then back at Jim.

She didn't move.

She _couldn't _move.

"_My god,_ Molly, you're looking at me like you'll never _see_ me again!" Jim exclaimed, laughing, "I'll_ be_ there. I _promise."_

"Okay." Molly said again, nodding again.

She then leaned towards Jim, giving him what was probably the most_ awkward_ goodbye kiss (next to his lips but not quite making it to his cheek) in the history of Molly Hooper (the most awkward woman) before retreating out of the vehicle.

* * *

"It's broken."

"Well why hasn't someone _fixed_ it?"

"I don't know what to tell you, sir, we have more _important_ things to worry about than a broken security camera in the morgue. Like actual, _living _patients."

"But—"

"He _does_ have a point, Greg."

Lestrade sighed.

"You're right." He told John and then turned to the security guard to say, "Thank you for your time, sir."

"Thank you." John echoed, politeness another on of his instinctual habits.

"Your welcome." The guard acknowledged, and then turned in his chair back to the screens and computers in his small office.

Lestrade and John took that as an invitation to leave and so left the room, going into one of the many halls of St. Bartholomew's.

"Let's check the morgue again." Lestrade suggested.

"Alright." John shrugged.

He really thought it was pointless.

If Molly hadn't been down there twenty minutes ago, she wouldn't be there now.

_But it's not like he had anything better to do, anyway…_

"You know, I really think it's strange." Lestrade commented as they walked, "How can they not fix a broken security camera? That's not safe! And it's been out a week now, judging by the days they didn't have footage."

John nodded.

He was silent, in thought, for a moment before speaking.

"It must have 'broken' the day…" John paused, caught himself pausing, and so then quickly continued, "The day Sherlock died."

Yes, died.

John had said 'died'.

There was no point in avoiding the word, no point in costuming it…

…no use in _pretending._

John had been to war.

He_ knew_ death.

_Very well. _

He'd seen so many people die _in front of him,_ die as he'd been unable to save their lives.

_Useless._

And he'd had so many friends that had died in battle, _so many soldiers…_

(But Sherlock _wasn't_ a soldier. He wasn't even supposed to be _human._ He wasn't supposed to _be able_ to die.)

Lestrade choked a bit at the word 'die' but minimized a visible reaction.

"…I think you're right." he realized, thinking over the timeline.

Lestrade stopped walking and when John noticed he had he stopped too, turning around to face him.

"Then you see where I'm going with this." John responded.

"…Moriarty." Lestrade inferred, "You think _he_ might've disabled the camera in the morgue?"

"_Maybe."_ John stated, "The news said 'Richard Brook' died…but we know he wasn't even _real. _And I never saw the body."

"Neither did I." Lestrade agreed, "The most I could get out of Dimmock was that they'd cremated it. But I don't know that for sure and for all we know a different body could've been cremated."

"…and Moriarty could still be alive." John completed.

Lestrade took a breath.

"Yes." he said, tentatively, "…but he could also be dead and we could be jumping to conclusions."

"Oh, well, you're probably right…" John chuckled, "…but we _are_ bored and need something to do."

"I _thought _we were looking for Molly." Lestrade reminded.

Because he _did _want to find Molly…

…but also because he didn't think John hunting down the ghost of Moriarty was the_ healthiest_ idea.

"We are." John affirmed, "…and who do you think was in the morgue that day the security camera 'broke'?"

* * *

After a quick nap in the car, Jim strolled along the streets of London.

God, it felt good to be back.

_And Jim was back. _

Sherlock Holmes was alive _(…somewhere…)_ and all Jim needed to do was to get Molly to lead him to him.

Now that wouldn't be _easy,_ of course…

…but it if _was,_ then it wouldn't be _fun._

Jim wondered _how_ he would get the information out of Molly.

How he would _break_ her.

And _when._

But Jim _didn't _wonder _if._

He didn't like that word.

He _also_ didn't like his clothes(—well, they weren't really his, actually, he'd burrowed (stolen) them from that doctor at Baskerville), they were baggy (and Jim _hated_ baggy (he had to flaunt his '_curves',_ after all)) and uncomfortable.

…not to mention, _unfashionable. _

They were white medical scrubs and Jim decided that this was what must be like to be Molly; baggy, unfashionable, medical attire.

_Of course,_ he'd come back to her flat that night—he still had one suit left there and he was in dire need of something _reasonable_ to wear.

(The rest of his clothing (and Richard Brooke's) was at Kitty's townhouse and Jim wasn't in a hurry to go back _there.) _

Jim came to halt when he finally found an ATM.

So far, nobody on the street had recognized him (it was the disgustingly unflattering outfit! (it was the fact that he hadn't shaved in almost a week)) but Jim didn't_ trust_ those ATM security cameras (…or the government employees who had access to them).

Luckily for Jim, however, there was still a woman at the money machine going about her banking, completely unaware of the criminal (and creeper) approaching her from behind.

Making sure he was out of the ATM camera's line-of-sight, Jim leaned against the wall of the building the machine was built into and reached out his arm.

The woman jumped and shrieked when she felt _something_ poke her.

"I've got a knife." Jim told her.

No, he had the burrowed (stolen) cars keys of the burrowed (stolen) car.

The woman slowly turned her head to look at Jim, eyes and mouth wide in fear.

(Now where had Jim seen _that_ expression before? _Such a beautiful look on a woman…) _

"You—you're a bank robber!" the woman exclaimed.

"No, I'm a leprechaun." Jim corrected, "Now listen to me—"

"You want to steal my money!" the woman screamed, interrupting him, "You want to steal all my money out of my account by taking it straight from the source!"

"No, I don't—that's just _silly."_ Jim scoffed, "And do you_ want_ everybody on the street to hear us?..._Duh._ Of course you do. You're trying to get me _caught."_

The woman nodded, a small smile growing on her otherwise frightened face.

Jim snorted.

"I bet _you_ think you're _clever."_ He reasoned with a smirk that then dropped into a scowl, "You're _not._ A clever person would _know better_ than to make_ me_ angry. A clever person would do_ exactly_ as I say. A clever person would _stay alive."_

Jim pressed the key a_ little_ harder into the thick fabric of the woman's skirtsuit—but not hard enough for her to realize that it was completely dull and not at all a threat.

"What do you want me to do?" The woman asked, in a whisper that indicated fear now greater than that of just being _robbed. _

Jim smiled.

"I want _you."_ he stated—just to tease her, then adding, "…to put in my account information for me."

"_What?"_ the woman blinked.

"I'll tell you the password," Jim explained, "and I don't _need _a card—my phone's got an app that'll spoof the integrated circuit of the smartchip. And I've got plenty of money…but I'm _camera-shy_ and so all I need is _you." _

"…Are you—are you _serious?"_ the woman questioned, shocked, confused but also very relieved.

"_I told you."_ Jim groaned, "I'm a leprechaun…_and I want my 'pot of gold'." _

"…okay, I'll do it…" the woman accepted, still confused, "Tell me what to do…"

Jim had already told her what to do (poor thing, slow learner), but out of the kindness of his heart told her again.

And so the woman punched in Jim's (or, rather, the_-_fake-name-he-used's_)_ ATM password into the machine while Jim fiddled with mobile-phone so that the bank account could be accessed.

But instead of receiving cash, Jim received a _message._

(A message that wasn't even meant for_ him_ but for the _other_ James Moriarty.)

_Greetings, Mr. Moriarty_

_Just because you use your real name publicly doesn't mean we wouldn't figure out your many secret aliases._

_As you must have realized by now, the British government has frozen and seized all your assets._

_If you would like a 'tax return', you know exactly what to give us._

_If not, then we'll find you and take what we want._

_And if you try to use your 'key' against us, well, we'll just kill you and your 'magnum opus' will die with you._

_Now, we may suffer some computer damage and never get to hold the 'key' in our hands if that happens…_

…_but you'll be dead so I think you know what choice to make here._

_Have a pleasant day._

_Best wishes,_

_Your 'friend' Mycroft Holmes_

Jim groaned.

He probably _should_ have expected this.

But he'd picked a bank that his brother actually _didn't_ own stock in and a less-obvious alias and so he'd thought (hoped) that Mycroft hadn't found this account…

(…at least not so soon.)

"What _is _this?" the woman demanded, squinting the screen suspiciously and then turning to squint at _Jim_ suspiciously.

"_Oh, well…"_ Jim sighed, "I guess I am a bank robber, after all…._Now give me all your money!"_

* * *

After a quick lunch in the hospital cafeteria (she'd been _starving)_, Molly hurried down to the morgue to get back to work.

When Molly stepped into her workroom, she'd expected to be alone (or at least only with _dead _people) but her boss was standing in front of the table, waiting for her.

"You're back." He said, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes at her as she approached.

"…yes, sir." Molly affirmed, stopping in the doorway as if afraid to continue into the room, "I am."

"Where were you?" her boss demanded, "You were gone for three days without scheduled leave or even notifying anyone."

"I—um…I was on holiday?" Molly attempted, knowing she wouldn't be believed.

"_Really?"_ the boss snapped, "Because if you were on 'holiday' then why are there a toothbrush, pillows and other personal items down here? Were you _living _here?"

He stepped to the side to reveal the metal table…

…which did indeed house a toothbrush _(ew_—dead people had been on that table, she would not be used _that_ toothbrush again), two pillows, and other personal items (such as a washcloth, a bar of soap).

"I wouldn't—I mean I didn't—" Molly fumbled, burning bright pink upon being discovered, "I didn't think anyone would_ notice!_—or, um, _mind." _

"Well, _you know_ you can't do this here." Her boss told her, "It's not safe, it's not sanitary, it's against procedure—"

"I know, I know!" Molly exclaimed, "I'm _sorry!"_

"I'm going to have to fire you for this." He stated.

"No!" Molly cried, "You can't _fire_ me!"

"Oh?" the boss scoffed, "And why not?"

"Because I've been working here almost ten years!" she reminded, urgently.

"So what?" the boss shrugged, "Others have been working longer."

"_But I—…" _

Molly trailed off, the desperation in her voice disappearing so that when she spoke again, she spoke with new and powerful resolve.

"I'm the best you have." She declared, "And you _know_ it. _Everybody _here knows it—even if they don't know _me._ I've been working here, taking all the _worst _jobs—the gruesome murders, the bloated bodies, the severely decomposed—that no one else wanted to do, covering for the other people who think they're the_ only_ ones with _lives,_ working late without complaint—or extra pay I haven't even got a raise in all these eight years! I put up with_ everything_, for so long… And so _that's_ why you can't fire me, _'sir'_,…because I _quit!_

"Well—I—you—"

Molly's boss sputtered, unable to find the words to respond.

Molly smiled and folded her arms triumphantly.

"Thank you, have a nice day." She offered, spinning on her heels to leave, _"Goodbye."_

Her boss stared in shock as she marched out of the room.

And he was _still _staring in shock as she hurried back in, collected her things from off of the worktable, and hurried out.

* * *

Trying not to seem as _'in a huff'_ as she felt, Molly tightened her fingers around her belongings (toiletries resourcefully stuffed into the pillowcases of the pillows) and decided to look on the _'bright side'_ of the situation…

There had been _two_ pillows, _two _toothbrushes.

But her boss hadn't figured out that there had been two_ people _'living' in the morgue for the two day (three night) period.

So that was _good._

And now that Molly no longer had a job, she'd have more 'free time' (for attempting to keep Jim out of trouble).

That was _also_ good.

_Besides,_ Jim had money, didn't he?

She didn't want to be one of those 'gold-digging' girlfriends, but _he'd _been the one to tell her to quit her job in the first place. _What had he expected?_

(—not that Molly had_ expected_ to quit her job today…or _ever,_ really.)

So Jim (and her marginal savings) could pay for what she needed, at least until she found another job.

And that was…good.

_(Kind of.) _

When the elevator doors opened so Molly could enter the main floor of the hospital, she saw Lestrade and John standing in front of her.

All three blinked in surprise.

"Molly?" Lestrade said.

"Uh…hi, Greg, John." Molly greeted both of them in turn, with a polite smile and nod.

The two gentlemen moved, allowing the lady to exit the elevator.

"I thought you said she'd gone missing." John told Lestrade.

"I guess I overreacted." Lestrade shrugged at John and then turned back to Molly, "How have you been? _Where_ have you been? And _what _is _that?"_

He gestured to her two pillows, with strange bulges shaped like toothbrushes and soapbars.

Molly laughed embarrassedly.

"Oh, just some things I kept here—in case I worked late, or something." She explained, "I'm taking them home."

"Oh…okay." Lestrade accepted.

"So what are you two doing here?" Molly inquired, "You thought I was _missing?"_

She was actually _flattered_ that someone had noticed she was gone.

"Yeah, well, you _were_ gone for a couple days and you weren't answering your phone…" Lestrade reasoned, "_Like I said,_ I overreacted. I've just been bored with nothing to do this past week, being on… _'holiday'_ and all. My mind must've wandered a bit _too_ far…"

"Oh…okay." Molly accepted.

"But, _actually…"_ John interjected, "We do have some questions to ask you."

"You do?" Molly asked, raising an eyebrow but leaving the sound of suspicion out of her voice.

"_Yes."_ John affirmed, "On the day that Sherlock died" (Molly and Lestrade both winced at the word) "the security camera in the morgue _'just happened' _to deactivate and nobody's been able to get it back online since."

"I don't know anything about that!" Molly replied (a little bit _too_ quickly), then adding "I was _fired,_ you see…" for explanation.

"You were _fired?"_ Lestrade exclaimed, _"Why?"_

Molly sighed sadly, staring down at her shoes.

"Well…" she began, softly, "when they…when they started calling Sherlock a 'fraud' and a 'criminal'—which I know he's _not,_ by the way, I _know_ that he's a genius, a _hero…" _

She paused.

(She was going to lie, _yes,_ but she wouldn't disgrace Sherlock doing it.)

John examined Molly expectantly and also very carefully.

He trusted her because he knew _Sherlock_ had…

…but he also knew that the only reason Sherlock_ had_ trusted her was because he didn't _think_ very much (or anything at all) of her.

But John knew better than that.

He knew that there was always _something_ hidden beneath a mild-mannered, soft-sweatered exterior.

"…What happened?" Lestrade questioned, urging Molly to continue her story (lie).

"My boss found I'd let Sherlock into the morgue all those times," Molly answered (lied), "to do experiments and work on cases, and that I'd even given him body parts. He didn't _like _that. He thought that if Sherlock was a criminal than so I was for…_for being his friend_. And so he fired me."

"That's ridiculous!" Lestrade declared, "…I'll go have a _word_ with him."

He started past Molly towards the elevator.

"No!" Molly cried, "Please don't!"

She tried to pull him back which caused the items in her hands to fall down to the floor.

John watched as both Molly and Lestrade bent to pick them up.

(He _would _have helped too, but he guessed that Lestrade maybe sort of _liked _Molly and so didn't want to get in his way of being her 'knight in shining armor'—_especially _now that Sherlock was…no longer around for Molly to have a crush on.)

"I mean, I'm fine with it…" Molly added as she lifted one of the pillows, "If my boss believes Sherlock is—_was_ a fraud…then I don't want to work for him—_or this hospital_—anyway."

"I understand." Lestrade understood as he lifted the other pillow and handed it to her.

Both stood, and then turned to John.

"I'm sorry I can't be more help." Molly apologized to him, "…I'm really, _really _sorry…about _everything." _

And she meant it too.

"That's alright." John dismissed, evenly—almost _emotionlessly,_ "Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome." Molly returned.

Considering the situation she didn't know what else to say, or if she should even _attempt_ a smile.

She was shocked that John was taking Sherlock's 'death' so well…

…unless he_ wasn't_ and everything he was feeling_ boiled_ (steadily, _intensely)_ under his coping soldier exterior.

Either way, Molly just wanted to break down into tears and admit to John (and Lestrade) that Sherlock was_ alive_—even if it_ did_ end up with them finding out about Jim (and _her_).

And if Sherlock hadn't made her _promise_ she wouldn't tell, then she _would._

"Would you like to, um, go get some lunch with me—_us?"_ Lestrade offered, hopefully.

Because he _did_ want to have lunch (and perhaps _dinner, _too (wink, wink—nudge, nudge)) with Molly…

…but also because he wanted to ease the situation's_ tension;_ building out of awkwardness, Sherlock, death, Sherlock, grief, and _Sherlock._

Molly smiled (politely, _halfheartedly)_ and shook her head as she held her pillows to her chest.

"…I have to go home..." She said.

* * *

Jim had actually arrived at Molly's flat before she did, and he must have been watching for her out the window, too, because he was waiting at the door to greet her when she finally did come home.

"Jim!" she squeaked, surprised to see him (so soon) as she opened the front door.

And _what the heck _was he we_aring?_

He was wearing_ her_ pink bathrobe because he didn't like what he was wearing earlier but he was saving the only suit he had there for tomorrow(—or at least that was his _excuse_ for wearing it).

Molly politely 'didn't notice' his attire.

"Somebody broke in." Jim informed.

"What?" Molly asked, "_When?" _

"…_me,_ obviously." Jim answered, to which Molly sighed in relief, to which Jim added, "…oh, and your pet Detective Inspector, too. With his kids. He fed the cat, the girl tried on your make-up, and the boy made a mess. I _tried_ to tidy up a bit…"

Jim closed the door behind Molly as she started down the hallway towards.

She glanced around the living room and the combined kitchenette and dining area.

It was _not _'tidy'.

"Uh, thank you…" Molly thanked anyway.

It was only _polite._

"You're very welcome, my dear." Jim accepted, anyway.

It was only_ polite. _

Molly sighed.

The apartment was_ small_…and yet it was all she could afford—or _could afford when she had a job._

_What would she do for rent now? _

"I lost my job." She said, turning to face him and still clutching the pillows (and the items inside the pillow cases).

"I'm so sorry to hear that." He sympathized as if this was the best news he'd gotten all day.

And _then_ he was unable (didn't _bother)_ to control his laugher.

"It's _not _funny!" Molly cried—because she _was_ close to crying now, after first quitting (getting _fired)_ the job she'd had (and actually _did_ enjoy) for the past eight years _and then_ lying _straight to John's face_ about the 'death' of his best friend.

Molly sniffed, trying (in vain) to hold the tears back.

Jim stared at her in confusion, eyebrow raised.

_What the hell?_

Why was she_ crying? _

Girls were always so _sensitive,_ so _emotional…_

…_for no logical reason!_

What was_ wrong _with them?

What was wrong with _her?_

Maybe women were just _greedy,_ Jim reasoned.

After all, when Jim had burrowed (stolen) all that woman at the ATM's money _she _had cried too.

And now Molly was crying because she lost her source of income.

"Stop that—you're messing up your face." Jim snapped.

(And Jim normally _liked _it when people made faces he could observe and someday use.)

He strode up to Molly, smacking the pillows out of her hands (making the room even more _not _tidy) and out of his way.

Molly tried to step back away, using her now free fingers to wipe her eyes, but Jim pulled her by the arms back to him.

"Why are you crying, Molly?" he whispered, his intent eyes drilling into her teary ones, "…it's not just your _job,_ is it? _Is it?"_

"No—yes—I mean it _is_ my job…" Molly tried, turning away from him.

Jim simply turned her face right back towards him.

He then sucked in a deep breath through his nose; smelling the air, smelling _her._

"You've eaten…have _lunch_ with anybody?"

"No."

And it wasn't even a lie, either.

But Jim didn't believe her.

"John Watson."

Because Molly had never _liked _John—

(and so would eat lunch with him without feeling like it was 'cheating' _(silly morals)_ or being embarrassed to eat the kind of full meal she needed after not eating the entire time since she'd been kidnapped.)

—but that didn't mean she liked _lying_ to John.

(About Jim…about _Sherlock…) _

Molly's expression confirmed the name.

Jim's expression confirmed that Molly's expression confirmed the name.

"How did you—"

Molly decided there was no point in correcting him.

"Doesn't matter."

Jim decided there was no point in explaining it.

"So how is he, _the soldier?"_ he inquired, "Soldiering on?"

"_Yes."_ Molly nodded determinedly (suddenly feeling very_ protective_ of John), with another sniff, "_He is."_

Jim grinned.

"Well, isn't that the British way?" he chuckled, "_'Keep calm and carry on'_ as they say—you should try it sometime, crybaby."

Molly swallowed, took a breath and then wiped what little water was there from her eyes, her face steadying to neutral.

"I'm am." She said, evenly—almost emotionlessly.

Molly _was_ trying to 'keep calm and carry on'.

_Always._

Even _before_ she had met Jim.

And _Jim…_

…well, Jim had never much liked 'the British way' anyway.

He wished Molly had a_llowed _herself to cry fully, so that he could have leaned forward and drunk a tear from her face just as it trickled down to that space between her cheek and her lips.

She probably would have thought it was _sweet_ (—creepy(but sweet)).

But Molly _hadn't _cried.

Oh well.

Not now.

…but maybe _later,_ though.

(Jim knew he could make Molly cried if he really _wanted_ to. If he _tried._ And when he _did,_ when he kissed away the tears he had caused…would she think it was as _'sweet'?) _

After all, Jim _did_ have to get the information about Sherlock out of her.

But not now.

Now, Jim made due with kissing Molly chastely—and then pulling her by the hand towards her bedroom with a suggestive smirk.

Molly forgave Jim because she knew that he genuinely didn't understand how sadness was one of the biggest 'turn-offs'—at least to people like _her._

When Jim noticed that Molly wasn't eagerly sprinting after him, he stopped to look back at her unmoving in the middle of the hall.

"Well, if you'd prefer the floor…" He mused.

"Please, not now…" Molly requested, trying not to sound _or_ get annoyed.

Jim didn't _bother_ trying.

_Not now?_

Fine, then.

_Now _was the _perfect_ time for him to _bleed_ whatever knowledge about Sherlock that Molly had out of her.

_It would be so sweet…_

And when it was all over, Jim could just kiss her tears and make it all better.

"Don't make me _ask."_ Jim warned, "Because I'll only do it _once_ and I _won't _do it _nicely."_

He heard Molly stifle a gasp—but she couldn't be _sad_ if she was too busy being _scared,_ right?

(Wrong.)

But Molly _hadn't_ stifled a 'gasp'…

…she'd stifled a _giggle._

Because Jim just looked _so _'intimidating' in the pink, slightly too small, woman's bathrobe.

_Her _bathrobe.

(And Molly had always wanted to be the girl to borrow he boyfriend's sweater but Jim didn't wear _sweaters_ and she was too afraid to wear (and risk ripping and/or staining) his expensive button-downs.)

Molly_,_ knowing what Jim was capable of (in any outfit (or naked)), _should_ have known better than to laugh…

…but _Jim,_ knowing Molly (the 'poster-girl' for conflicting emotions), _should_ have known better than to assume that she could only feel _one_ emotion at a time.

" I—I'm sorry." Molly apologized again, covering her face as if she was crying instead of laughing, "It won't happen again."

(Of course, it probably_ would_. But Jim didn't really mind it if Molly 'fought back'—as long as _he_ always _won.)_

"Good." Jim smiled, demeanor instantly returning to friendly and relaxed, "Now, come here."

And so Molly _did._

Because although_ sadness_ was a 'turn-off', _humor_ was _not._

(…as long as Jim _never _found out that Molly had laughed at him.)

* * *

**If it's not called an 'ATM machine' in England, I'm sorry.**

**At least I got the 'carpark' thing right, though.  
**

**lol.  
**

**A thank you also to all those who have read and reviewed this entire story so far.  
**

**Would a personal, in-chapter 'shout out' be an _incentive_ to review again (or for the first time)?  
**

**I'll do it.  
**

**And you'll know it's just another one of my fishing-scams (lol) to get more reviews and compliments...but maybe (just maybe) you'll take the bait (and actually like it, too). ****  
**


	7. Happy Couple

**I'm sorry this took so long, especially since it's kinda short...**

**Reviewers last chapter:  
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_**My Beautiful Ending  
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_**laal ratty  
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_**lesser mortal  
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_**Luthien Terlunya  
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_**Molly's Cat Toby  
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_**hiddlestunned  
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**THANKS SO MUCH GUYS!  
**

**And thanks to everyone who's reading, I hope you're still enjoying the story!  
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* * *

Just like she'd done in the car yesterday, Molly awoke in the mid-morning to the sound of the radio—_a newscaster's voice_—making its white noise in harmony to the rest of the music of the city.

(And Molly really _did _love London, despite the noise and the smog.)

As Molly vacillated between awake and asleep in that in-between state of consciousness, she'd heard the report and so when she full rose from bed (alone) and made her way into the hall she already knew what had happened.

Another building had exploded.

First a school and now an office building.

(And just _what _(or who) did those two locations have in common?—_one name.)_

Although there were no casualties (suspicious), London was still beginning to panic.

Molly found Jim seated at and elbows on the kitchen counter, looking very…_pensive._

His hands were folded together, not touching the steaming mug of coffee or the mumblings radio next to him.

He looked up when Molly entered (Toby trotting after her) and stood across from him on the other side of the counter.

"Who do you think did it?" he asked, seriously.

"I don't know." Molly answered, "…maybe your brother, tying up loose ends?"

"He'd never draw that much _attention_ to himself." Jim dismissed, "No, it seems like someone's trying to get_ his_ attention. The news hasn't made the connection _yet_…but they_ will_—unless someone covers it up."

"You mean Sherlock's brother?" Molly guessed, "And do you think _he's _responsible for this?"

"_Maybe…"_ Jim considered, "…or maybe it was _Sherlock." _

"He'd dead." Molly declared, quickly and out of habit.

Jim smirked.

"Oh, _of course_…" he conceded, "How could I forget?"

His smirk softened into the smile that Molly never quite _trusted._

Still she smiled back, fear and hope.

"…I miss him." Molly admitted, (because it _was_ true), "…and I understand if _you_ miss him too…even if you _are_ the reason he died. I know that's how you are."

Jim laughed lightly, shaking his head and then reached over to turn off the radio.

"You think you know me?" he teased.

"No." Molly said, also shaking her head, "…Not _everything _about you—because no one can know everything about another person, or even _themselves_—but I do know_ some_ things, Jim, and we_ both_ know that you could be miles away from here and_ I_ could be _dead. _But you're _not_ and _I'm_ not."

"I'm here and you're alive." Jim grinned in agreement, "But _why?_ Do you know _that?"_

"I told you I don't know everything." Molly reminded with a sad shrug and an acquiescent smile.

"…well, let me tell you a little _secret,_ then." Jim whispered, playfully "Neither do I."

And then he laughed, and she laughed and it was just another pleasant morning and another pleasant moment shared between two pleasant people, _as normal as can be…_

…until Jim added (voice still so playful that only someone _trained_ in interpreting Jim's words (Molly) would notice the edge of threat) "...but I _do_ know how to find out what I _want _to know. And l always find out, _eventually…" _

But as soon as it had happened the _un_pleasant moment was gone and Jim was taking Molly's awkward silence (pause to try to interpret his words—wondering if there was even anything there _to_ interpret) as space to speak yet again.

"The coffee's for you, by the way." He informed, gesturing to the mug, "Did you know that?"

Before Molly could reply, however, she and Jim heard a sharp knock on the door.

_It was only eight in the morning, who could it be…?_

"I'll get it!" Jim sang, jumping up from his stool.

"No!" Molly squealed, reaching across the counter to push him back down into his seat, _"Hide!"_

"What, so your loverboy Lestrade doesn't see me?" Jim scoffed.

"Yes!" Molly confirmed, nodding profusely.

Jim removed Molly's hands from his shoulders and stood up anyway.

"It's not him." he said, stepping around the counter and then Molly.

"How do you know?" Molly asked.

"The knocks different." Jim chuckled, "_You_ should know how the inspector knocks by now, considering all times he's stopped by for _'official visits'." _

He made his way down the hall and the front door knocked again, this time more insistently.

"Oh…" Molly accepted, "…so who is it, then?"

* * *

Sebastian Moran had heard that there was an 'accidental' explosion the university that James used to teach at (before suddenly quitting and disappearing—much to the confusion of the administration) and the first thing (person) he'd thought of was Jim.

He knew it was a _mistake,_ helping Jim stay alive (especially when he'd _so conveniently_ wanted to die) but he'd obeyed his orders and now he was trying his best not to say 'I told you so' to his employer who'd just ordered him to find out who (Jim) had 'accidentally' caused the 'accidental' explosion and capture him (Jim).

Knowing that neither Molly nor Jim were at the hospital, Moran went to Molly's apartment building to check if they were there.

He knocked a few times to be_ polite_ (to tip them off so they'd run (proving their guilt) and he'd have a good _chase _before he caught (or shot) them) and, after waiting about two and a half minutes, was about to just kick down the front door when he heard the knob began to turn.

Moran stepped back to see Jim open the door…_wearing a pink bathrobe (?)._

…_why, just why…?_

Moran decided not to comment, deciding that Jim had probably purposefully decided to come to the door dressed like this just to _creep out_ whoever was on the other side.

He kept his face blank and Jim smiled up at him.

"Why, hello there, Mr. Moran." Jim greeted, leaning against the doorframe, "What can I do you for this fine morning?"

"You know why I'm here." Moran stated.

"The explosions?" Jim assumed, with a chuckle, "If you think that was me, then you're a _moron,_ Moran. No casualties?—_not my style." _

And that_ was_ true…

…._but still,_ Moran knew that one could never be sure what Jim_ would_ or_ wouldn't_ do _(—or_ if he'd made some kind of 'no killing' deal with Molly in exchange for being freed from paralysis.)

"You and Miss Hooper will both need to come with me." he stated.

"And here I thought _your employer_ was 'done' with us." Jim laughed.

"He _is."_ Moran affirmed, "You think he's the only one looking for who blew up those buildings?"

"Working with the police now, are you?" Jim suspected, "'Detective Moran' has got a nice ring to it."

Moran said nothing to this…

…which only made Jim smile wider.

"So it's _true."_ Jim inferred, "You're silence sounds like admission—"

"And _you _sound like your admitting to the bombings." Moran returned, "So get dressed, get your girlfriend, and come with me."

"Oh, why can't you just let us live in peace!" Jim sobbed, "That's all Molly and I want to do!"

Moran stared at Jim like he was crazy (which he _was _and so maybe 'crazy' was the wrong choice of word).

Moran stared at Jim like he was perfectly sane and just wanted to 'live in peace' with his girlfriend.

Jim snickered.

"You really are a _terrible_ detective, 'Detective _Moron'_, you know that?" he told Moran, "First, you've got the wrong guy…"

Jim trailed off.

Moran sighed and took the bait.

"Second?" he inquired.

"_Second,_ you let yourself be _followed."_ Jim smiled, eyes glancing past Moran down the hallway of doors.

A figure was approaching.

The very _familiar_ figure of Detective Inspect Gregory Lestrade.

Moran growled to himself.

_He thought he'd lost that guy yesterday! _

There was _no way_ Lestrade had tracked him here…

…it must have been a coincidence, he must have been coming to talk to Molly anyway.

"Alright, I'm going to leave _now."_ Moran conceded, already turning to go, "But I _will_ be back."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Both of you _amateur_ 'detectives' should be worrying less about me and Molly and more about who actually blew up those buildings." He suggested, "It's what _I'd_ be doing if_ I_ was a detective. And what about the _greatest detective of all?_ What would _Sherlock Holmes_ do?"

Moran did not roll his eyes and did not respond, instead hurrying away down the hall in the opposite direction that Lestrade was coming.

Jim closed the door behind him, starting back into Molly's flat and calling out to her "Your turn to get the door, dear…"

* * *

Lestrade was texting on his phone (_conveniently_—for Jim and Moran that is) and so hadn't seen just who else had just been corridor with him.

One person he'd attempted to follow the day before and another person that was supposed to be dead.

The second person was the person that Lestrade had come to Molly to talk about.

Jim Moriarty.

The very chance that he might still be alive somehow put her (and the rest of the world) in danger…

…if she wasn't covering up for him by breaking the morgue's security camera.

'The jury was still out' on whether she was a good girl on Sherlock's side or a secret villainess of Moriarty's…and how suspicious Lestrade was of Molly on any given day depended on how much his wife was cheating on him on that day.

Today she was 'busy later' and so Molly was innocent.

Lestrade was frantically texting every babysitter in his contacts to see if any of them were available to watch his children while he worked and his wife _played._

Hopefully he'd find one before he got to Molly's front door and so he was walking _very slowly._

Finally, he reached the door and knocked lightly and hesitantly.

It _was _only around eight-thirty in the morning…what if Molly was still asleep. He didn't want to be _rude_ and wake her up.

But apparently Molly was already awake because she answered the door fully dressed (even though she didn't have a job anymore and so didn't have a reason to wake up and get dressed so early).

"Greg?" she greeted, in (feigned) surprise.

"Molly!" Lestrade smiled, "Good morning…may I come in a talk to you?"

Molly groaned inwardly (but smiled apologetically outwardly).

_Not this again! _

Did the man really not know how to take a hint…

…or did he just want to _search _her place?

"What is this about?" Molly asked.

"Moriarty." Lestrade stated, "John and I think he's still alive. Let's sit down and I'll explain it to you."

"Now is…really not a good time." Molly responded quickly, and undefinable expression of nervousness and exasperation on her face.

"Why not?" Lestrade demanded, beginning to get suspicious yet again.

This was the second time Molly had refused to allow him into her flat and although that was perfectly legal (especially because he wasn't even on duty anymore)…

…she had also had no visible or audible reaction to his statement about Moriarty being possibly _alive._

For a woman who jumped at _everything,_ she _obviously _wasn't shocked or scared by _that _statement.

Which was beyond just _strange._

"Because…" Molly attempted, now realizing her mistake and grasping desperately at her own mind for a believable _excuse. _

Just as both she and Lestrade were about to speak (Lestrade to accuse, Molly to babble a nervous self-defense) they heard a noise from inside her apartment.

And_ not_ one she could blame on her cat this time.

It was the shower.

Molly froze, eyes widening in shock and embarrassed.

Lestrade looked equally shocked and embarrassed.

"…is…is someone _in there?"_ he questioned.

No, _of course_ not.

The shower just turned on all by itself.

—or maybe it was _Toby._

Because cats know how to use showers and just _love_ water.

"_Yes…"_ Molly admitted, hiding her flushed face in her hand, "…I have my boyfriend over. _That's_ why you can't come in…"

Well, _that_ explained why Molly was acting so strangely (suspiciously). But who was her boyfriend?

"…Oh." Lestrade accepted, trying not to sound too disappointed, "Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend? Don't friends tell eachother this kind of thing?"

"I didn't want you to get mad..." Molly said, (which wasn't _technically_ a lie, either).

"_Really?"_ Lestrade replied, disbelief both surprised and skeptical, then adding, "Why would I get mad? I'm not mad! And I'd love to meet your boyfriend—"

"Well, he's in the shower right now." Molly dismissed the idea quickly, "So I'm sorry but—"

"I can wait." Lestrade declared, folding his arms.

And he was going to wait, he really was…

…but then his phone rang.

Thinking it would be a prospective babysitter, Lestrade opened his phone to see that his wife was calling.

For once.

"It's my wife…" Lestrade said, half disappointed and half pleasantly surprised.

And Molly all but sighed in relief.

"Oh?" she said neutrally, instead.

"I've got to go take this." Lestrade told her, "But we're going to talk about this later. Have a nice day, Molly."

"You too." Molly returned, waving at him as he walked away and then closing the door behind him.

Whatever Lestrade had meant by 'this' (Jim or her boyfriend (Jim or Jim)) Molly did_ not_ want to talk to him about later.

There was only so long she could keep up this lie _(these lies_—there were _so many of them;_ so many different ones to so many different people she could hardly keep them all straight)…

…_before something went terribly wrong._

* * *

Mycroft was…_skeptical _when he checked the caller-ID of his ringing phone and saw that it was Sherlock who was calling him.

He knew his little brother didn't call him just to 'catch-up' (even though he really _should_ have since they _were _working together) and so expecting some _trouble,_ Mycroft answered with a _careful,_ "Sherlock?"

"Who is he?" Sherlock's voice answered.

Mycroft chuckled.

"Now unless you're experiencing amnesia due to your fall, you're going to have to be more specific that that—"

"You didn't let me finish. But you know who I'm talking about, _don't you, _Mycroft? The man I saw in the stairwell of Bart's the day I 'died' and then again at the both explosion sites."

"Sebastian Moran. Former army sniper, now working with a private military firm—"

"Don't waste time telling me things I already know. You can know all that about him just by _looking_ him."

"Even his _name?_ I didn't realize your 'powers of deduction' were _that_ keen—"

"I _overheard_ Moran's name. It's called _listening, _Mycroft."

"Well what would like to know about him, then, Sherlock?"

"Who he's working for."

"I just told you—"

"I've witnessed Sebastian Moran work _on behalf of_ Jim Moriarty, _James_ Moriarty, Scotland Yard and a private military and security contracting company—and that's all just within the past week. And so what I want to know is who he's working _for,_ who he's _loyal _to."

"…and why would_ I_ know_ that? _You're the one _following_ him, it seems."

"_Yes,_ but _you've _always been better having insight into people's _personalities." _

"I don't believe Mr. Moran _has_ one of those. In his business a personality not an asset."

"I understand that he is 'just following orders', but whose orders _are _they?"

"Hmm…why don't we use 'process of elimination' to 'deduce' that one, then, shall we? I don't think that Scotland Yard is hiring many outside consultants at the moment, considering the little_ scandal _they had with the detective that turned out to be a fraud…what_ was_ his name again, Sherlock?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes—but Mycroft couldn't see him, as they were speaking over the phone.

_This_ is why Sherlock preferred texting.

_Emoticons. _

...and not having to actually_ talk_ to people either, of course.

"Stop wasting time." Sherlock requested (commanded).

Mycroft laughed, sighed and continued, "Where were we? Oh yes, '_process of elimination'._ Scotland Yard is unlikely and Jim Moriarty is _dead_. James Moriarty has fled the country and yet Mr. Moran is still in London so that leaves only one option—"

"You believe he's working for the firm?"

"I'd assume so. They're powerful government contractor and they pay very well."

Now it was_ Sherlock's_ turn to laugh.

"If that's the case, then _why _would they—a 'powerful _government_ contractor', as you put it—order Moran to help cover up the fact that 'Richard Brook' wasn't real after his suicide?"

That surprised Mycroft.

He was glad Sherlock couldn't see his face.

"I'll…have to talk to them about that."

Sherlock snorted.

"Of course you will, Mycroft." He scoffed, "Talking's all you ever seem to do…Meanwhile,_ I'll_ actually be _useful–_doing_ your_ work for you."

"More explosions, then?" Mycroft guessed, "You must really _miss_ our 'dear friend' _Jim, _to copy his _style_ like that."

"His _'style'?_ Are you recommending that I start killing people in these 'bombings'—"

"No."

"Then I hope our 'dear friend'_ James_ misses his dead little brother enough to come back to London even though the explosions aren't _quite_ Jim's 'style'—since he certainly isn't missing his _money_ in the accounts you seized."

"I'll admit that neither of our plans to get Mr. Moriarty's attention are currently _working_…but maybe that's not a problem._ Maybe_ we can have a certain _security firm_, and a certain security firm _employee_ do our work _for _us…"

* * *

Molly would be a fool to believe that she could keep _Jim Moriarty_ idle and indoors, safely away from 'reeking havoc' on the unsuspecting public.

And so when he decided that the two of them would be going shopping, she relented (even though she really didn't like shopping) because it was a relatively _harmless_ activity compared to _other things_ (illegal, immoral things) that Jim enjoyed doing and she did need to pick up some cat food for Toby.

But all successful relationships (because Jim and Molly's 'relationship' was _definitely _successful) were built on _compromise_ and so Molly got to choose location in which said shopping would occur.

(…in hindsight, Molly admitted, _that _was a _mistake.) _

"I can't believe you've never had a manicure before—but then I can't believe I'm actually _here."_

Molly rolled her eyes at Jim's complaint as they exited the nail salon (with freshly manicured nails).

_(She_ couldn't believe she had just gotten her first manicure with her boyfriend who was clearly practiced at the act of sitting chair for almost an hour while strangers filed and cleaned your nails for you…but you didn't hear _her_ complaining.)

It was late morning now and the shopping-center was steadily growing more crowded (although mostly by teenagers and the elderly since normal adults had _jobs_ to go to during this time of weekday—unlike Molly (and Jim)) as they casually walked through the wide halls and high ceilings, oversaturated by stores and advertisements.

She could smell food and perfume, hear chatter and footsteps, and see all the people, lights and colors surrounding her.

It was so _different_ (better) than being down in the cold, gray morgue all day (and night, too).

So much _life…_

(And maybe this unemployment thing wasn't_ so_ bad, after all…_temporarily.)_

Molly liked it.

Jim, however, hated shopping-centers—or at least _talked _as if he did.

He'd been decrying the stupid, _conformist _nature of the 'norms' that blindly followed their greedy, _evil overlords_ (the government and big-business) to be distracted and controlled by purchasing useless items they believed they _needed_ because of _subliminal-messaging_ and _mind-control…_

…or _something_ like that.

Molly had kind of tuned it out after:

"_I can't believe you've never had a manicure before—but then I can't believe I'm actually here." _

And on second thought, Molly decided that Jim probably _loved_ shopping-centers because he seemed to be having fun playing 'conspiracy-theorist' to complain about them.

"Why _would_ I have gotten manicure?" Molly shrugged, finally interrupting him, "Nobody'd see my nails if I'd gotten them done cause of the gloves I wear for work—or, at least, _wore_ for work…when I _had _a job…and I had to keep them short so they didn't poke through. And if you didn't want to go to a shopping centre, then _why_ are we here?"

"Because when you dress _pedestrian_, we go some place _pedestrian."_ Jim explained, eyeing her outfit disapprovingly, then adding, "…_Miss Pedestrian."_ for extra emphasis (for the 'Rule of Three').

Molly glanced down at herself, and then to the side to check her appearance in passing shop mirror.

Jeans and a t-shirt.

Pretty normal…but then 'Mr. _Un_Pedestrian' was in a suit and tie.

And what an odd couple they were; man 'dressed-up', woman 'dressed-_down',_ in their mid-thirties and traversing the mall in the middle of the day.

"Why would I dress up to go shopping?" Molly snorted, as if the idea was ridiculous (which it _was_—to_ her_ (and to _Jim_ it was completely necessary and logical).

Jim groaned.

Poor thing, she'd _never _understand…

"Because you look…_underdressed_ next to me."

It was quite a _polite _choice of words if Jim thought so himself.

"Well, where are your regular clothes?"

'_Regular clothes'?_

But suits_ were_ his 'regular clothes'…

_Oh!_ Molly meant _Richard Brooke's_ clothes.

_Yeah, where were they again, anyway? _

…

…

…_nevermind._

"I…burned them." Jim saved, "Besides, we can't go somewhere _nice_ with you wearing _that."_

"Somewhere nice?" Molly repeated, raising an eyebrow, "…Like the Gap?"

And then Jim burst into tears.

(On the _inside _only, of course.)

But outwardly, he _did _sigh defeatedly and hold his head in his hand.

_No, she'd never, ever, ever understand…_

…it was kind of cute, actually, once it was done being _exhausting._

(And maybe she did it on purpose just to appall and annoy him…_no!_ she'd _never_ do _that_…_would she?)_

"I can wait outside," Molly offered, when Jim hadn't spoken, "while you go into 'somewhere nice' and shop around."

"I think you might just be on to something there," Jim agreed (sarcastically), "While I go 'shop around', you'll wait outside the store like my pet poodle! I'll even tie you to a parking meter so you don't wander off. Oh, but then I'll have a leash and sparkling diamond collar and—"

"You know that's not what I meant, Jim." Molly interrupted (again) once Jim started rambling (again).

"And_ you_ know we've got to get you something to wear, _Molly." _Jim returned, "Elderly librarian just isn't doing it for me anymore—_no offense." _

_Yes_ offense.

Molly gasped and gaped in shock for a second before responding.

"Well,_ I_ happen to _like_ how I dress!" she declared, "…Now, it may not be skintight spandex,_ I_ _realize that, _but I don't _need _to be going around looking like a—"

"Like a slut?" Jim completed, with a smirk.

"…that's _not_ the word I would have used." Molly neither confirmed nor denied, "And I'm not saying that women who are…_comfortable _with themselves and want to show off what they…_have _are 'sluts' or anything _I just_…I just don't feel the need to do that myself."

She finished her statement by folding her arms declaratively, to which Jim snorted and rolled his eyes.

Now there was a small crowd of passersby pausing to witness the argument between the dowdy woman and her suave 'gay best friend' that was over clothes….

…or maybe a man…

…or _something—_whatever, it really didn't matter, anyway.

What_ mattered_ was that there was a _show_ for them to watch so that they wouldn't get bored in their boring, monotonous lives controlled by the Illuminati, the Freemasons, and the media.

Noticing the eager audience gathering for him, Jim grinned, raising his voice as he continued to 'argue' with Molly.

"No, you're just too _embarrassed_ to." He announced, "And now _I'm_ embarrassed to be seen with you!"

"Really?" Molly exclaimed, taken aback (hurt).

She couldn't think of anything else _to _say—at least not quickly enough to keep up with Jim's conversation pace.

_Surely,_ he _had_ to be joking.

_(...Hopefully…)_

Several audible 'oohs' and 'ohs' emitted from their fellow shoppers who had the looks of shock and disbelief on their faces that Jim so _loved._

But to Jim, of course, they _still_ weren't enough.

He always wanted _more._

"Yeah!" Jim confirmed _(loudly (exaggeratedly)),_ "I want a pretty girl on my arm to show off around town, not on my arm to show off around town."

More horrified onlookers, more horrified exclamations.

It was then Molly realized that _people were staring._

(She really couldn't take Jim anywhere, could she? He just _had_ to cause a scene_. Always.) _

"Then go find one." she snapped, already turning away from to escape from and Jim the gazing crowd, "…I'll be buying food for Toby."

And with that, Molly was stomping away from the scene, leaving Jim just standing there.

_Surely,_ she knew he'd been _joking. _

_(…Hopefully…) _

With the 'show' over, the a few (mostly female) members of the 'audience' even applauded, congratulating Molly for 'leaving' (retreating from) Jim (and the nosy passersby).

The clapping only made Molly hurry away faster, but it made Jim stick around to greet his 'pedestrian' public.

_The public,_ however, did _not _stick around now that there was nothing to see here.

They returned to their earlier business (and minding their own, too) of shopping and spending a nice summer day indoors.

Only one retired woman, an elderly librarian, remained to speak to Jim.

"Shame on you, boy!" She chastised, shaking an accusing finger, "You're worrying about your wife's clothing while she's trying to feed your son? Get your act together and apologize!"

Jim held his laughter in his lungs and the smile back from his face until he felt able to talk without exploding.

"…Yes, ma'am. I will, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." He grinned matter-of-factly down at the bent-backed old woman, stooping to kiss her on her wrinkled forehead before strolling away.

* * *

Lestrade was…_skeptical _when he checked the caller-ID of his ringing phone and saw that it was Anderson who was calling him.

(Maybe a 'butt-dial'? Maybe Anderson and Sally were _'working together'_ and accidently hit the phone?)

Expecting the worse, Lestrade answered with a cautious "…hello?"

"Hello?" Anderson's voice answered in an equally cautious and very nervous whisper.

Lestrade laughed.

"I'm surprised you'd call me, Anderson…considering what happened. You know you're not_ supposed_ to and you shouldn't _want _to, Donovan's made_ that_ clear."

"Donovan's the reason I'm calling. I want to talk about what happened with you and her the other day—"

"You don't like me threatening to expose your affair? _Stop having one, then." _

"Not about _that…_although I really_ don't_ appreciate you doing that. Please stop—"

"Then what _is_ this about?"

"The new bloke. The one that the Chief Superintendent sent in to supervise after you got suspended allowed onto the crime scene yesterday with no explanation."

"Yeah, I saw him at the explosion site yesterday. I tried to follow him later, but he got away. Who is he?"

"His name's Moran, I think...He's ex-military and works for some security firm or something. I don't know _what_ he's doing here, they're not telling us anything—"

"He's still there? Where is he now?"

"Sally's distracting both of them with some bullshit case so I can talk you without them knowing."

"What _'bullshit case'?" _

Anderson sighed, knowing that he wasn't _allowed _to divulge open-case information to an officer on suspension…_and_ that Lestrade would not like what he was about to hear.

"…a woman says she was robbed by Moriarty—But we know it's not_ true,_ since he's _dead _and no one's sure if he even _was_ 'Moriarty' or just some actor Holmes paid—"

"Moriarty was _real."_ Lestrade declared, "And Sherlock was _not_ a fraud. _That _we _know."_

Anderson laughed; half bitterly, half embarrassedly.

"I'm not allowed to be talking about Sherlock Holmes—especially not to _you,_ sir. …But I know something's going on with those two men because so far they haven't even let me and Sally _look_ at the Holmes_ or_ the Moriarty case."

"Do you know _anything_, anything at all?...Like what happened to Moriarty's body—I heard it was cremated but where are the ashes? Where are his belongings? _Who_ found the body? And who actually _saw_ Moriarty dead? I tried to go the morgue to see both him_ and_ Sherlock, but it was closed that whole day, no one could get in!…for all I know Moriarty's still alive and out there somewhere!"

"I don't know."

"_Well I want answers!" _

Lestrade hoped the frustrated shout would scare Anderson into telling him any secrets he might have still been keeping.

"I do too, sir!"

Anderson's exclamation was equally desperate and frustrated and so Lestrade determined he probably had told him everything he knew.

And this time Lestrade noticed the 'sir'.

So, at least Anderson still respected him as an authority.

Maybe he_ could_ trust him, after all…

"You said Donovan was distracting those two men, right?"

"…yes..."

Now _Anderson _was the one who was skeptical—and _suspicious._

And _rightly so,_ too.

"Then while _they're_ busy with the 'bullshit case', why don't _we _take a look at the Holmes and the Moriarty case files?"

* * *

Jim _was_ going to go after Molly and apologize straight away, _he really was…_

…but then he'd seen one of the_ classier_ clothing stores in the shopping-center and just _had_ to stop in and 'shop around' (as Molly had put it).

Two hours (two missed calls, and two missed texts) later, he'd finished and finally found for his 'wife' Molly who'd gone food shopping for their 'son' Toby.

Molly was sitting in the armchair of a bookstore, a single shopping-bag to her side, flipping through a paperback.

He was carrying multiple shopping-bags in both hands (which was another reason he hated shopping-centers, nobody to carry your bags for you) which he set down on the floor as he entered the store.

Molly was reading the same sentence over and over again, pretending not to notice him as he approached.

She was forced to acknowledge him when got close enough to snatch the book from her hands.

"Hey!" Molly exclaimed, leaping up to grab it back.

She gave up trying to get it when realized Jim was just going to play 'keep-away' with her, holding the paperback up just above her reach and hoping she's jump for it.

"…'Twilight'…" Jim read aloud the title, examining the book once Molly refused to play with him, "…what is this?"

"It's a story about a human girl torn between two supernatural loves." Molly informed, "One a vampire and the other a werewolf. It's very romantic."

"It's _American."_ Jim dismissed with disgust, tossing the book over his shoulder.

It hit a bookshelf, knocking down other books and causing other patrons of the bookshop to glare.

Molly rushed over to clean up the mess, returning the glares with an apologetic and embarrassed expression somewhere between a smile and grimace.

When she was finished, she turned back to Jim who was now sitting in her (the store's) chair browsing idly through a gossip magazine.

"We should go." She said (and all the other shoppers and store employees agreed).

Jim nodded and stood up.

Molly started towards the exit of the bookstore, carrying her one plastic-bag.

"A little _help?"_ Jim requested, eyebrow raised and gesturing at all of his bags on the floor.

Molly stopped and sighed.

When the couple exited the bookshop it was Molly carrying all the shopping-bags, Jim strolling ahead of her with a spring in his step, wondering why she was walking so very slowly.

It was funny how Jim cared so much about his appearance (enough to wear expensive clothes and take longer than Molly to get ready in the morning)…

…and yet didn't care how much of an _un_gentleman he looked with his girlfriend carrying the heavier load.

But that was thing about Jim; he only _pretended_ to care what others thought of him.

He only pretended to _care…_

Jim stopped up ahead and Molly thought for a moment that he was waiting for her, but when she hurried to stand beside him she saw that he wasn't.

No, Jim was just _objectively appreciating the artistic value of the human form_ (gazing lustily at the image of two half-nude models) by staring at an advertisement in the window of a store.

"If they're trying to sell clothes, they should _actually show_ clothes in the advert." Molly commented, glancing distastefully at the (all but) explicit picture.

Jim just laughed.

"You really don't like shopping, do you?" He 'deduced'.

"No." Molly confirmed, more sternly than normal since she was now in a bad mood, "I _don't." _

"What kind of girl are you?" Jim inquired, "Women are supposed to love shopping."

"And men are supposed to _hate _it." Molly returned.

"I'm gay." Jim shrugged, "What's_ your _excuse?"

_Gay. _

That _word_ again.

_Jim was gay. _

And from his (stereotypically gay) behavior today maybe Jim was_ bored_ of playing this 'boyfriend' game with Molly.

Molly always knew this wouldn't _(couldn't)_ last forever between her and Jim…

…but she'd also assumed that when the relationship did end_, so would her life. _

"You do know I was just kidding, right?" Jim said once he saw that worried, _thinking _look on Molly's face.

"_You were?"_ she asked, in surprise disbelief unmasked as she was shaken from her reverie.

"About the clothing thing." Jim explained, with a chuckle, "I couldn't care less what you wear. I'm not _that_ petty…_Besides,_ I like you better naked, anyway."

"…um…_thank you?"_ was all Molly managed to say to that.

She couldn't tell if Jim was _joking _or _not _joking, or doing that _thing_ where joking and not joking were the _same thing_ and he _meant_ every lie he told.

Molly searched for a clue on Jim's face, but she could tell that the flirty smirk and hungry eyes were just planted there to further mislead her.

She wondered why she put up with all this.

She liked to say (to herself) it was because she didn't have a_ choice_ and that Jim wouldn't _allow _her to leave him so she couldn't risk making him_ angry_ and she was just _trying to stay alive_—which was all probably _true…_

…but she'd be_ lying_ if she said (to herself) she that she didn't_ like_ it (him), that she didn't love it _(him). _

"I've got something to say." Jim said, evenly.

And then he was down one knee with Molly staring at him in immobile shock.

"W-what is it?" Molly asked.

He _couldn't_ be…

…there was _no way…_

"Your shoes untied." Jim grinned up at her.

Molly laughed to relieve the tension and Jim re-tied her shoe for her.

(And _of course_ it was untied, it just_ had _to be untied—because Jim had purposely stepped on its laces while he and Molly were talking.)

When Jim stood upright again, he was already walking away.

"A little help?" Molly called after him.

Parroting Jim's words, but not his convincing tone of voice that had made her jump into action before she'd even realized what she was doing.

Despite her unconvincing nervousness, Jim was still convinced somehow to return and lift half the bags from the shopping-center's tile floor.

This time they shared the load, which wasn't exactly _chivalry _but definitely an improvement.

Maybe there was_ some_ hope for Jim, after all…

"I can't believe you bought _all this _in just one day." Molly expressed.

"Well it's not all for me." Jim declared, "I picked up a few things for you, too."

"You shouldn't have!" Molly exclaimed the polite response.

"I can take it back…" he offered.

And Molly said no more 'polite responses'.

"So…should we go get lunch or something?" Molly suggested, changing the subject.

It_ was_ now almost noon.

"I want to get out of this shopping-centre." Jim stated.

"Where do you want to go?" Molly inquired.

Molly didn't care much were she and Jim went…as long as it _wasn't_ back to her flat where either Lestrade or Moran (or both) would be waiting to confront Molly or Jim (or both).

"Far away from here…" Jim said.

Molly followed his gaze over to a large television screen by a fountain, some benches and a map of the shopping-center.

Other people were already stopping gathering around it and watch in shock and horror the news footage being broadcast.

_Live. _

There had been a third explosion at a third building, _this time_ the headquarters of some private military firm.

"_Somebody pulled the fire alarm so we all went outside." The excited man on the screen described with extreme gesticulation, "And I was like, where's the fire? And then there was just this huge BOOM that knocked us to ground and my ears were ringing and there was smoke everywhere!...and broken glass, too, we'd just had our windows cleaned.." _

There were (thankfully) no casualties, _just like_ _before …_

…but _unlike _the two earlier bombings—anonymous and 'accidental'—there was evident writing on the wall as to who was 'responsible'.

Evident writing on the wall in _big flaming letters. _

_MORIARTY._

The camera recording caught the perfect angle of the name, burning on the side of the building.

Obviously,_ something_ (chemicals? oil? powder?) had been purposefully drawn on the wall so that when the bomb (or whatever it was) went off, it would catch on fire and display the name for all to see.

But Molly had been with Jim all day.

She knew _he_ hadn't done this (—unless he'd _hired_ someone to, of course, but everyone he knew thought he was dead or Richard Brook (or _both))._

And so this meant that either someone was _pretending_ to be Jim (and/or at least prove he was _real)_…or knew he was still alive and trying to get his _attention _(and/or possibly frame him for a crime he actually _hadn't_ committed)_._

Both were _bad._

_And soon,_ Molly feared, _something was going to go terribly_ _wrong…_

"We really need to leave now." Molly decided, turning away from the television towards Jim.

Again, Jim nodded.

* * *

"…and there was no physical evidence _whatsoever_ indicating that Moriarty died." Lestrade informed John urgently, "We checked the files, we checked storage—"

"I believe you." John interrupted, "Look at _this…"_

He sidestepped from the doorway, gesturing as he did to his sister's living room television.

On the screen a third building in London had experienced an explosion.

Burned into its brick wall was an all-too familiar name.

_MORIARTY._

Lestrade gaped in shocked.

"He…he really _is_ alive…" He muttered.

"Not for long." John said.

* * *

"Five minutes." Jim stated, "Pack up everything we'll need. I'll be waiting outside in the car…"

"You still _have_ that car?" Molly asked, taken aback, "You said you were going to give it back!"

"Not yet." Jim refused.

And Molly was in too much of a hurry to disagree or complain.

After seeing the name MORIARTY all over the news, Lestrade and Moran would both be coming to Molly's flat any minute now, guns drawn.

Jim strode out of her flat and she ran around it, chasing Toby into his cat-carrier and then hastily tossing various toiletries into a bag.

Everything else they'd have to buy (with what little money Molly had since Jim's bank accounts were frozen (—according to him, at least)) when they got to…wherever they were going.

Molly didn't ask.

She just placed the mewing Toby (inside the cat-carrier) into the backseat of the (stolen) car, next to the shopping-bags, tossing the toiletries in after him and then rushing into the passenger seat beside Jim who quickly sped away.

Molly _knew_ this couldn't (wouldn't) last, she _knew _she couldn't keep up the lie (all the lies) _forever…_

…but at least she didn't have to have the big, emotional revelation confrontation just now.

'_Delaying the inevitable'?_

Yes.

But Molly didn't _care._

For now, she and Jim were free and escaping the city to live together in peace and that was all that mattered…

…at least to _Molly,_ anyway, who was too worried about what _had _happened and what _would_ happen and too_ grateful_ that they were avoiding a fight to realize something.

That Jim Moriarty _always_ ran _towards_ trouble and_ never _ran _away _from it—unless to jump out the frying pan and into the fire.

That he _was_ the fire and trouble followed him everywhere he'd go…**  
**

* * *

**But is Jim _really_ gay?**

**Well as I'm sure most of you agree, he probably doesn't have an actual sexual orientation and just uses sex to control and/or shock people.  
**

**Saying he's 'gay' is just for added shock-value, since it _is_ a controversial topic (although it _shouldn't_ be). He plays it up for the fun of it, just to see people's reactions.  
**

**...it's also a convenient way to channel his passion and obsession for his male enemy Sherlock in a non-threatening (to him, anyway) manner that is less 'emotional' and so makes him less vulnerable.  
**

**And also, ****  
**

**PLEASE REVIEW!  
**

**Love to all.  
**


	8. Pray for the Predator

**Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter :  
**

**lesser mortal-thanks for reassuring me about the deer (and everything else, too lol) xx back to you even though we don't really use that in the US lol.  
**

**Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat.-look! you changed your name back!  
**

**Shay-of-Awe-'Well hello' to you too, mi amiga, I love your superman squirell icon :)  
**

**NokNok JJ-and_ you_ changed your name. What is the story of that name, btw, if you don't mind me asking?  
**

**Anonymouse-ha,ha clever name :) glad you started reading (and reviewing lol)!  
**

**I hope you all (and all other readers, too) enjoy this chapter...  
**

**...and don't_ hate_ me either.  
**

**You'll know what I'm talking about when you've read it. lol.  
**

* * *

**(The Middle of Nowhere (the scenic countryside), England, 2012.) **

This was the middle of nowhere.

There had been farm fields for a while but now it was all tall, unkempt grass and _silence._

The car had turned off the main road onto the unmaintained dirt one and drove until there was no longer any road at all.

Then it stopped.

It parked in front of an abandoned old manor, in strangely clean and good condition for the forgotten area but still loomed foreboding.

The passengers (a man, a woman and a cat) exited the vehicle, closing the car-doors behind them causing sharp echoes in the empty landscape and gazing up at the mansion ahead of them.

"Well, here we are…" Jim announced, a little too mocking and triumphant to be sincere, "I know it's not much, but it can be 'home'…"

"…what is this place?" Molly asked, examining the manor's recently replaced (within the last few years) windows and carefully tended ivy (grown, but not _over_grown).

The wind blew, giving her shivers.

Or maybe it wasn't the wind.

Jim looked away from the building, back at Molly who still stared at it, and grinned.

"When my brother finally _allowed_ me to come back to London," he explained, "He got this place to_ hide_ from me so I couldn't _bother_ him. It's completely off the grid, removed from all records—it was_ supposed _to have been demolished—it has its own generator and water-tank. The government has no idea it's even_ here_—and neither did_ I_ for a long time. _Convenient,_ no? _Nobody will ever find us here…"_

Molly glanced around the property, no phonelines or powerlines, no other buildings or people for miles and miles, _nothing…_

"Is he here?" Molly inquired.

"I hope not." Jim chuckled, "I kinda wanted us to be _alone…"_

"..uh…me too..." Molly agreed, reaching into the backseat to the car to pull out the Toby inside the cat-carrier.

She placed it on the grassy ground, opening the latch.

Tentatively, Toby sniffed the air before hopping out and onto the field where he chewed some grass to ease his stomach, sick from the long car ride.

Soon he was exploring the area, smelling and tasting everything_ new_ and chasing after animals so small that Molly couldn't see them immersed in the tall grass.

"Some beasts should_ never_ be caged." Jim commented, watching the cat, "They _deserve _to be free."

"Toby's never been outdoors before." Molly recounted, "…or even out of the _city!_ It's his first time in a place like this, I hope it's not _too_ overwhelming for him…"

"He'll be fine." Jim shrugged, and then started towards the mansion, "Let's go inside."

* * *

Jim jiggled the doorknob until he was able to force the front door open (and thankfully not off its (fixed) hinges.

"I wonder if James left anything behind for us…" he wondered as he stepped into the dark building, "or if he had Moran clear everything out."

"Moran knows about this place?" Molly exclaimed in surprised, "What if he finds us here?"

"He won't." Jim dismissed, "He'd never look for us somewhere he knew I knew he knew about…_Now, where's the lightswitch…?"_

Jim's hand searched the papered-walls until he was able to turn the lights on.

"Good old James left us the generator." He smiled, the smile then fading, "…but not much _else…" _

He scanned the entryway; stairs ahead, rooms and halls to both sides, _all empty._

No furniture.

But no cobwebs_ either_ and not _too much_ dust.

Molly guessed it was fitting for a poor, jobless woman like her to live like a hobo in a furniture-less house that she really had no right to be in.

But she knew Jim would not _stand _for living in this lack of luxury (and _she_ didn't much like it either).

"What are we going to do?" Molly worried, also scanning the empty room, "Do you think there'll be anything left in the kitchen? Oven, fridge…_food?"_

"Let's check." Jim suggested.

He and Molly wandered around the dimly-lit manor (flipping on lights as they went) until they found the kitchen.

It was the largest kitchen Molly'd ever been in before (much bigger than the kitchenette in her flat) obviously designed for servants and cooks to work in with its adjoining pantry (empty).

It had an oven but no refrigerator and no food inside any of the shelves or cabinets built into its walls.

"Who owned this before your brother?" Molly asked.

"It was probably abandoned by old money turned nouveaux _poor _in the twenties." Jim answered, "My brother doesn't even _own_ it he just sort of '_burrowed'_ it."

"…oh." Molly accepted.

"Let's check upstairs." Jim decided.

* * *

Upstairs was no more furnished than the downstairs, full of empty rooms and hallways with minimal lighting.

The floors creaked, the lights flickered and although it was mid-afternoon Molly was really beginning to get creeped out.

The windows were all curtain-less and Molly ventured through two glass doors onto a balcony overlooking the backyard of the house which seemed to have once been a garden.

Any fixes James had had made to the manor hadn't included _beautification_, apparently, but why would he have bothered, anyway?

He probably didn't _care_ about bushes and flowers, Molly assumed.

_Jim,_ however, _knew better._

His brother didn't like weeds and disorder, and the only reason he'd have allowed them to flourish was to make sure this mansion looked unoccupied (which it _was,_ the majority of times) to anyone who might happen to stumble upon it.

The parasitic and strangling vines had now completely seized the property because James had ditched the place as soon as he'd found out that Jim knew about it.

Jim found Molly on the balcony, staring down sadly at the dead flowers a story below.

He'd _wanted _to sneak up behind her and place his arms around her…but the damn floors were too creaky and so she jumped when she heard him and spun around to face him.

"Jim!" she squeaked, taking a deep breath of subsiding fear, "It's just you."

'_Just' _him?

He thought Molly knew better than _that._

He thought she knew to be_ afraid_ of him.

"Who else?" Jim mused, "It's just the two of us here, _alone…"_

That _should _have set her on edge, _just enough…_

…but it _didn't._

Molly smiled, laughing lightly in comfortable ('silly me') embarrassment.

"I know," she conceded, "But it's just the _atmosphere_ of this place. So old and empty…it _is _a bit creepy, you know? And we _can't _stay here, _can we?"_

"Why not?" Jim tried, with a shrug.

"Well there's nothing here! No furniture, no food—"

"_So what?_ I could hunt, you could grow a garden. We'd live like Adam and Eve, the only people in our own little world…"

Molly snorted.

_"We'd_ be hunter-gatherers?" she considered, giggling, "I don't think that would _work._ I can't really imagine you actually _hunting…"_

"Then you don't know me very well, Miss Hooper." Jim countered, folding his arms but with a smile, "There's more than one kind of 'hunting'."

"Don't you have, well, _'people for that'?"_ Molly teased.

"…_not anymore."_ Jim lamented exaggeratedly, "…but sometimes I _like_ doing the job myself."

"But _seriously_, Jim, what are we going to do?" Molly asked, "Where are we going to go?"

"We're staying here." Jim answered, seriously.

"How are we going to live like this?" Molly persisted, "We're completely isolated—there's not even mobile phone service out here—and we've got no proper amenities. We can't stay here more than a couple days—"

"Not a problem." Jim interrupted. "That's_ more_ than enough time."

"…_w-what?"_ Molly questioned, confused and suddenly nervous, "…'that's more than enough time' for _what?" _

"Oh, well, you know…." Jim began, starting towards her leisurely, "…get you to admit it about Sherlock."

Molly's breath caught.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice high out of fear that came across as overly-feigned innocence.

"Molly, dear, I've driven you to an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere." Jim patronized, "You know _exactly _what I mean."

"…no I don't?" Molly attempted.

Jim rolled his eyes, continuing in her direction.

Molly backed away from him…into the railing of the balcony.

_Trapped. _

Just how Jim wanted her.

"Now we can do this the _'easy_ way' or the _'hard_ way'…" Jim explained, "I want you to know I'm not _angry _with you, Molly… I just want you to stop _lying_ to me. That's all."

"I'm not—"

"_Shut up!_ Don't speak if you're just going to _lie."_

"But I don't even know what you're talking about!"

Jim groaned.

"Do I _have_ to spell it out for you? Are you_ really_ that _stupid?"_

Molly gasped.

So it was finally all over for her.

Just when she thought she'd gotten away from the _Sherlock-and-Jim_ problem in London, Jim had figured it all out.

Her eyes darted from Jim to the once-garden below her then back to Jim and then the doors behind him.

_Could she escape? _

Molly looked, wide-eyed, back at Jim.

His face softened, smiling apologetically as if he were _her._

"I'm sorry I yelled." He offered, "I just…I just thought I could trust you. So why don't you just tell me the truth now so I can forgive you and we can both just forget about this—"

"_No."_ Molly refused.

She knew that she was admitting herself a liar with that word, but she didn't care.

What right did Jim have to get angry at her for lying anyway?

Everything he'd ever said to her was lie!

(Or at least_ most _of it, anyway.)

And now he was acting like _she_ was the 'bad-guy' who'd wronged _him,_ talking the way he was, _he_ _was making fun of her._

" '_No'?"_ Jim snorted.

"No." Molly repeated, determinedly.

It was quiet for a second.

The wind whistled, beckoning Molly over the edge of the balcony as if it_ wanted_ her to jump.

Molly glanced behind her down at the stone patio.

It wouldn't kill her if she jumped—at least not immediately.

No, it would just wound her painful and immobile to die slowly unable to do anything about it.

"_You know_ you're going to give me what I want." Jim reasoned, "So why don't we just get this over with right now and then go back to being a happy couple on a honeymoon in here the country? You tell me about Sherlock Holmes."

Molly shook her head.

"I have ways of making you talk." Jim troped, still trying to be 'friendly' about this, _"Don't_ make me use them. I _really_ don't _want_ to…"

"Then don't." Molly suggested.

Jim laughed, throwing his head back to glance up at the gray sky, but when he face returned to face Molly's he wasn't smiling anymore.

"Sherlock Holmes is still alive." He said, "You _honestly believed_ I wouldn't figure that out? You _honestly believed_ I wouldn't figured out you'd _helped _him? _You honestly believed_ you could_ lie… _to _me?" _

Molly said nothing, staring down at her shoes not in shame but in sadness.

Everything had been so _almost-perfect, _despite everything, for the first time in her life…why did it have to go wrong now?

Jim was_ not_ going to forgive her for lying to him about Sherlock (the most important person in his life), that much she knew.

But still she didn't regret it.

She didn't regret helping Sherlock or lying to Jim about it.

Some things (like other people's safety) were more important than her own happiness.

And even if she ended up _alone,_ even if she ended up _dead…_

…Molly was _not _going to give Sherlock up.

"Sherlock…" Jim continued, "How did he survive? You can tell me _that,_ can't you? Did he jump?"

"Yes." Molly confirmed, recalling that Jim had been unconscious at the time.

"Then, how did he survive the fall?" Jim demanded.

"…I don't know." Molly said (and she honestly didn't), "He didn't _tell_ me that—"

"And what_ did_ he tell you?" Jim inquired, conversationally.

Molly shook her head again.

Even _she _wouldn't let her carefully guarded information slip _that_ easily.

"_Come on,_ Molly." Jim coaxed, "Just _tell _me. You don't owe Sherlock _anything."_

"That doesn't matter." Molly declined, "I _promised." _

"Then _lie!"_ Jim shouted, "Make your promise to him just another one of your lies!"

"No!" Molly shouted.

"Oh, so you can't lie to _Sherlock_ but you can lie to _me?"_ Jim scoffed.

"I_ have_ lied to Sherlock—"

"I mean it's not like I'm someone _important _to you or anything…_No,_ I'm only your _boyfriend…_And Sherlock Holmes is, well, _Sherlock Holmes, _genius detective—I'm nothing to you compared to him. _Nothing—"_

"_You know_ that's not true, Jim! _You know that I…"_

Molly stopped her words before they escaped into dangerous, uncharted territory.

Jim chuckled bitterly at his victory.

"You _what?"_ he taunted _"Love_ me? You don't _'love'_ me, Molly my 'darling'. If you _loved_ meyou wouldn't_ lie_ to me."

"It's all you've ever done to me!" Molly countered quickly.

And then she realized the implication of her statement.

It had all been set up perfectly by Jim for Molly to learn his definition of 'love' as 'not lying' and then having her 'deduce' how he felt about her based on his lies told to her.

He'd been baiting her into it since he'd asked her to change her promise to Sherlock into a lie and she'd fallen right into his trap.

_Again. _

_And so,_ again, Molly felt _stupid._

_And alone. _

So very alone out here in the middle of nowhere with the man that she'd _hoped_ cared about her—_even if only just a little._

Jim smirked once he saw on Molly's face that she'd thought everything over and figured it out.

Once he knew he'd _won. _

_Again. _

…but_ had_ he won?

Now it was _Molly's_ turn to laugh.

It was_ joyless_ and sounded like _despair…_

…but it was a laugh all the same and _she_ threw _her_ head back, mimicking Jim the way she knew _he _loved to mimic _her._

_(And what is imitation if not the sincerest form of flattery? (and what is flattery if not another hopeless kind of love?)) _

"And I _know_ I'm nothing to you, just a distraction..." she stated, "but you're _wasting your time _with me because I'm _not_ going to tell you_ anything_ about Sherlock. So you should just kill me now if you're going to do it."

_Kill her?_

Well, why _not?_

He'd already said how worthless promises meant to him that they could be changed to lies.

And _so much_ of what Jim had ever said were lies, why not his promise not to kill as well?

"Really now?" Jim dismissed, "We'll just have to see about that—"

"_Please…_ could you just stop _threatening_ me!" Molly exclaimed, "If you're going to kill me, _do it._ If you're going to_ torture_ me, _do it. _Just do it!_"_

"Well, you're sure in quite the hurry—"

"And _you're_ stalling. You make a lot threats, _'Mr. Moriarty'_, but I've never seen you act on them."

Slackjawed for a second because Molly _did_ have a point, Jim quickly scoffed.

"And you actually_ want_ me to? _Yeah right._ I'm 'stalling' for _your _sake, love, you can hardly handle _harsh words_ I don't think you_ survive_ me getting _physical."_

"Well you're going to have to do _something_ because I'm _done_ talking."

This time, Molly started towards Jim—or, rather, the glass window-doors behind him.

She stepped around him and turned to watch her walk back into the empty room.

"Where do you think you're going?" Jim called after her.

"I'm leaving." Molly stated, not turning back to look at him as she continued away.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, remember!" Jim reminded, and then pulled the car-keys from his pocket, jingling them for her to hear, "There's nowhere for you to go!"

"Then stop me." Molly baited, her figure getting further and further away from Jim.

"I don't have to." Jim dismissed, not moving from where he stood on the balcony, "You'll be back."

He couldn't see Molly anymore; she'd disappeared down the hall.

"No, I won't." Molly's voice called back to him.

"_Yes, you will…"_ He muttered—to himself since she could hear him anymore.

* * *

Toby trotted up to Molly as soon as she exited the manor (with a regretted slam of the front door that shook the building and echoed around the grounds).

She bent to stroke his fur as he rubbed his head affectionately against her hand (leaving his fur and his scent behind to mark his territory).

…At least_ Toby_ still loved her, Molly reasoned with a sigh, at least Toby _always_ loved her…

Standing back up, Molly starting walking away from the mansion, in no particular direction, through the tall grass.

It seemed silent but then she began to hear the sounds of birds chirping and bees buzzing, and realized that she (and Jim and Toby) weren't so _alone_ out here, after all.

(—not that the animals could (or would) help her if Jim decided to kill (or torture) her.)

Molly walked until she could no longer see the large house and was surrounded equally on all sides by sky, grass and nothingness.

Then she sat down.

Toby had followed her for a while, running ahead and then doubling back to her but once she'd ventured too far from the area surrounding the mansion he'd turned back the way they'd come (knowing his limits and acknowledging his fears of the unknown).

She'd watched him pounce at grasshoppers, not understanding why they stopped hopping once his paws had finally caught (and crushed them)—_not understanding his own strength. _

Toby had just been playing, the way cats do, and it had been cute…

…until Molly saw him gut a mouse that had darted out of the grass into a small clearing to eat a fallen seed.

The cat hadn't _meant_ to hurt it, it's not like he'd _wanted _to kill or eat the mouse.

No, he'd just wanted to _play…_

It wasn't _cruelty,_ it was just _nature._

Even sweet little Toby, the soft and fluffy indoor cat who'd never killed _anything_ before in his life, couldn't help but revert to his feline instincts.

He'd sniffed at the mouse, bleeding out (slowly, _painfully)_ from its spilled stomach on the field and then trod away quickly forgetting it and returning to his exploration of the area.

Molly stepped around the poor thing, there was nothing she could do for it.

Now she was sitting, alone again, in the field. Grass was folded beneath her and slightly obscuring her where it stood next to her, taller than she sat.

In a few hours, the sun would set.

But she couldn't see it through the clouds above.

Molly sat in silence for a long moment, thinking.

Then she jerked abruptly upon hearing footsteps behind her.

Whipping around, Molly expected to see Jim creeping towards her (trying to sneak up on her again like the creeper he was).

Instead, she saw a deer.

It was a safe distance away and probably hadn't noticed her as it lowered its head to chew on the plants.

Slowly, Molly rose, careful not to make a sound.

Upright now, she saw that the deer (a brave adolescent male with budding antlers) wasn't alone and accompanied by several females more circumspect than and staying farther away.

Step by soft step, she tried to approach the herd without scaring them,

But once she got too close, all their heads sprung up to stare at her.

"I'm not going to hurt you." she attempted, knowing that they couldn't understand her and wishing she had some kind of food to offer them.

The deer took her voice as a threat and leaped away towards the forest Molly could see in the distance.

They were so much faster than her, but Molly tried to go after them anyway, just for the fun of it.

She didn't bother to chase because she knew she couldn't catch them, but maybe she'd see some hoofprints (or droppings) and be able to play 'tracker' for a little while—_at least until it got dark. _

…and _when _it got dark, what would she do then?

Go back to the manor, back to _Jim?_

Tell him she was sorry, tell him about Sherlock, tell him _everything? _

_No. _

_He _was supposed to come after _her._

But_ would_ he?

(Maybe.)

Did she even _want _him to?

_(Yes.)_

* * *

Molly found the deer at the edge of the forest, not far from where they'd run.

They looked at her, she looked at them and then they returned to what they were doing (eating).

They weren't _afraid _of humans, _not really_…just not _used_ to them and so_ wary. _

(They weren't afraid of _Molly,_ just of the _unknown.) _

For the second time, Molly attempted to approach the herd with quiet caution.

She didn't know_ why_ she did, it's not like she wanted to capture them (what would she even do with them if she did?) or even _touch_ them, she just _did. _

(Because they were cute? Because they were _there?)_

Suddenly a blast like deafening thunder cracked through the air, causing the whole world (or, at least _Molly's_ world) to vibrate.

Ears ringing and head pounding, when Molly opened her eyes (which she hadn't even realized she had squinted shut in shock) the deer were already sprinting away into the forest until they were invisible amongst the brown trunks of trees.

And burrowed into the brown tree trunk beside Molly there was a bullet.

She turned around to see Jim blowing imaginary smoke from the barrel of a gun (that he'd mysteriously acquired somehow since Molly had last seen him, as he had come here unarmed).

"You missed on purpose." Molly stated, "You could have hit the deer."

"I wasn't aiming for them." Jim shrugged.

"More _talk."_ Molly dismissed, turning away from him and heading into the forest.

_Would he follow? _

He did.

"The gun was in the house, by the way." Jim conversed, "One of my brother's people must've left it behind. How careless—and _convenient._ It's almost like someone _knew_ we'd be coming…"

Molly ignored Jim, continuing into the woods, listening to his words and footsteps behind her.

While she was looking, Jim took imaginary shots at her back.

He could have killed her as many times as he had bullets left in the gun, killed her and she'd never have even seen it coming.

Just knowing that was enough (…for _now)._

And playing with guns?

Well, that was just _fun._

"Really, to find you out here in the forest with all the little woodland critters, it's almost _too _perfect." Jim continued, "_Quaint…_But you've got to remember to be careful now. Even _here,_ over the rainbow, not _all_ wild creatures are so _friendly."_

Molly rolled her eyes.

But Jim couldn't see her face.

And she couldn't see_ his_.

This was an _uncomfortable_ arrangement that neither _liked_ but neither were attempting to _adjust,_ either.

"There could be _lions _and _tigers_ and _bears,_ my dear Dorothy_..."_ Jim added and when Molly didn't say it, he said, "…_oh my." _

"Enough with the games, Jim." She responded, coming to stop between two tall trees.

"You really want me to hurt you, don't you?" Jim snorted.

"Do what you're going to do." Molly told him.

Jim sighed.

But he wasn't going to play 'chicken' with her this time.

"_All this time…"_ Jim mused, "All this time I've so_ good_ with you, Molly, I've been _perfect._ The perfect _friend,_ the perfect _boyfriend, _the perfect _lover;_ I paid attention to you, I bought you flowers, I was never too _rough _with you…I was _perfect_, just _perfect_—but now I see I was _wrong." _

Molly said nothing, _again _she said nothing…

…and it was really getting on Jim's nerves.

"And do you want to _why_ I was wrong?" he asked (rhetorically, because he knew she wouldn't answer), "Because I was playing the _wrong man._ This whole time I've been a good little boy on my very best behavior—but you never _wanted_ the 'good boy', _did you_? No...no, you wanted a _bad_ boy. The _villain…_Well, I can_ be_ the villain, Molly, I _know how_ to play the villain—and I'm good at it too—so is _that_ what you want?"

"Like I said," Molly replied, back still turned to him, _"_I want you to _do what you're going to do." _

Jim chuckled.

Then there was a long, _silent _moment in which the wings of birds fluttered and the wind shook the leaves in the trees.

_And then_ Molly felt the mouth of the gun on the back of her neck.

"Very well, then." Jim breathed into her ear, "If it's the devil you want, it's the devil you'll get."

* * *

**(London, England, 2012.)**

John and Lestrade arrived at the chaotic scene of the third explosion.

Broken glass, crumbling rubble and confused civilians milling around decorated the pavement.

Lights of police cars were flashing through the smoke as police officers started taping off the area.

'MORIARTY', no longer burning, was now black char on the brick wall full of glassless windows.

"That's the man I told you about." Lestrade stated.

John looked over to where Lestrade was pointing.

Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock and two other men stood in a circle conversing in hushed tones behind an ambulance where a few people were being treated for minor injuries.

Suddenly, John realized he recognized one of the two men.

"I know him…" he muttered.

But before he could explain further, a black van pulled up next to the ambulance.

Three black suited men and one black skirtsuited woman exited the vehicle, wearing black sunglasses (despite it being a cloudy day). The men held guns and the woman held a smartphone—and if they were actually trying not to be noticed by dressing entirely in black it was _not_ working.

"…_and_ I know her." John added.

"How?" Lestrade asked, examining the woman John knew as 'Anthea' appreciatively as she strut in her high-heels towards the circle of police officers, "And can you introduce me?"

"She works for Sherlock's brother Mycroft." John informed, "I don't know her real name and I already _tried_ 'introducing' myself—it doesn't work."

"…oh well." Lestrade shrugged, "And the man? How do you know _him?"_

John sighed darkly, glaring over at the man he knew to be Sebastian Moran.

"Well, it all started when_…"_ John began.

* * *

**((once upon a time in) Afghanistan, 2009.) **

This was the eighth victim this month shot by a sniper.

The rest were dead—_instantly_—but _this one,_ this one had _survived._

Barely.

He was unconscious, shaking as the blood spurted from his mouth…and his skull.

The bullet had missed that _perfect place_ between the eyebrows this time, leaving this sloppy and still alive mess behind.

And it was still lodged in the man's brain.

_(Who_ was the man? Just another dead soldier—or at least he _would_ be soon enough. Another forgotten statistic in an endless, exhausting war….)

There had never been a bullet before.

All the rest had shot through the _skin_ and the _bone_ and the _brain_ of their victims, and then come out the other end, never to be found.

Not this time.

Doctor John Watson reached into the red, spurting hole with his tweezers and removed the bullet from the man's brain.

This cause more blood to spill out and all over Doctor Watson's scrubs but he'd already known there was nothing he could do to save this man's life.

Squinting to examine the bloody bullet, Doctor Watson saw that it was the brand that _British_ snipers used—not the cheap kind that terrorist militias use.

Now, it _could_ have been just been _stolen…_

But something in Doctor Watson's gut told him that it might not have been.

These eight victims, all soldiers shot in the head_—once—_by a mysterious sniper in the same dangerous strip of city neighborhood…

…it was too much of a _coincidence._

The terrorists who sniped from tall, abandoned buildings were never this accurate, this _good._

And they never just fired _one_ round—no, the ripped into any random target (not just foreign soldiers) with imprecise aim and angry overkill just to prove their point and spread fear.

These killings had all been careful and calculated.

..._and yet_ they were _reasonless._

If it wasn't a terrorist doing the shootings to fight against the 'Western infidels' invading their land then _why _would anyone be doing this at all?

Doctor Watson wondered.

And he kept the bullet.

* * *

This was_ supposed_ to be relaxing—the Army version of 'relaxing', anyway.

Working in the military hospital, far away from the fighting, tending to the wounded.

But Doctor Watson couldn't help being agitated.

Although he couldn't _see_ it, he could still hear the gunfire and the bombs.

Sometimes, when it was very quiet (_unnervingly _quiet), he thought it had to be his imagination.

(And sometimes, he was right.)

The shouts of fleeing civilians and fighting soldiers were _so different_ from the hopeless moans of dying men.

_Dying…_

…but not _dead._

Just confined to agony and a bed, unable to truly _live._

Doctor Watson passed by these wide rooms today, full of emptying people, and made his way towards the smaller one used for routine check-ups.

Although (as a doctor)he knew that maintaining one's health was necessary (and important), Doctor Watson normally didn't_ like_ performing these check-ups.

There were soldiers just down the hall, missing limbs and vital organs, who needed his help much more than the healthy and intact ones.

But today wasn't a normal day.

Today was the day the British team of snipers in the area were scheduled to have their check-ups.

And so Doctor Watson had specifically _requested_ this assignment.

He entered the room to see the men seated (patient and totally still as they were trained to be) in their folding-chairs.

In unison they stood and saluted to Doctor Watson (even though he was 'only a doctor' and didn't outrank them) with practiced formality.

He returned their salutes and when they broke form he examined each of the men in turn.

There was nothing he could tell ('deduce') about any of them and so he brought up his clipboard, glancing down at the list of names.

"So, who's first, then?" he asked.

* * *

Of all the jobs in the army, Doctor Watson had never favored snipers.

Now that's not to say he'd disrespect any branch, rank or profession in the military, or any person who would willingly put their life in jeopardy to defend their country…

…but snipers perched themselves above all the rest of the soldiers, picking off the people below them without even looking into their eyes.

They_ didn't_ put themselves into the same kind of danger than the other soldiers did—physically_ or_ mentally.

And Doctor Watson didn't know if he could respect that.

That didn't mean he'd _dis_respect it, though, of course.

"Sebastian Moran?" Doctor Watson read aloud from his clipboard, then setting it down on the table next to his patient.

"Yes." Moran affirmed, "That's me."

He stared straight ahead, blankly at the white wall as Doctor Watson took his pulse (one of the slowest resting heart-rates he'd ever seen) and blood-pressure (low enough to have been considered '_dead'_ twenty years ago).

Doctor Watson didn't appreciate Moran's toneless voice or his lack of eye-contact—even though it was technically of procedure. He was used to people dropping their military formalities for him.

(Either because he was tending to them as they were experiencing an extremely painful injury—or because they were mostly undressed during their check-up and about to be asked the embarrassing questions.)

"Is there anything wrong?" Doctor Watson tried.

He'd been _trying _all day, conversationally with the cover of _concern,_ to get the snipers to talk about their _job._

Trying to get them to slip up and admit if they knew anything about or had anything to do with the killings of soldiers that been occurring lately.

Doctor Watson knew he'd probably get nowhere with this little 'investigation', but these deaths haunted him, much more than the others he'd slowly become numb to, and he found he just couldn't _stop _trying to figure out what was going on.

Or, maybe he just missed the action.

Maybe he was just bored.

"I'll tell you what's wrong." Moran said, "I'm bored. Aren't you?"

"No." Doctor Watson replied (lied?), taken aback, "There's a lot to do around here. A lot of people who need medical attention."

"Well, I haven't had a mission in _months."_ Moran explained, "I've just been on my ass doing _nothing_ and I'm tired of it."

"…I'm sorry." Doctor Watson offered, not knowing what else to say and getting suspicious.

"You know, you don't seem like a doctor." Moran stated.

"Are you questioning my qualifications?" Doctor Watson asked.

"No, I'm just saying." Moran shrugged, "You don't seem like a doctor…you seem like a fighter. So why are you not _fighting?"_

"Maybe because I don't enjoy hurting people." John scoffed, "Maybe I like _helping_ people better."

"Then why become a soldier at all?" Moran questioned.

"Family tradition." Doctor Watson slipped and told him before he could stop himself.

Now Moran would ask questions, _awkward_ questions that he didn't want to answer.

"Me too." Moran returned, instead of asking anything more.

And so Doctor Watson decided to ask another question of his own.

"…so why do you say that, anyway? Why do you say I 'seem like a fighter'."

Finally, Moran smiled—just a little.

"Because you're looking for a fight."

Doctor Watson raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?" he inquired, trying to sound confused.

"You do emergency treatment and invasive surgeries and yet you request to do check-ups on uninjured snipers." Moran stated, "That seems like a fighter looking for a fight to me."

"_Why?"_ Doctor Watson pressed.

Moran was making this _easy _for him—_sort of…_

"…You want the stories, don't you?" Moran diverted, "Told by people still sane enough to tell them. The war stories, horror stories…"

Doctor Watson snorted.

"I see so much war and horror everyday—"

"Yes and it's not enough. _Just watching…_One day you'll need _more._"

"Yeah, sure."

Doctor Watson rolled his eyes but Moran stared at him seriously.

"You ever killed anybody before?" he asked.

"That's not the kind of question you ask someone—" Doctor Watson started but was interrupted.

"Just answer."

"…I've _watched_ people die, been unable to _save_ them. What's the difference, that and actually killing them?"

"You'll know when you do. When you kill someone you'll _know _what the 'difference' is, you'll _feel_ it."

Doctor Watson eyed Moran in guarded contempt.

He knew that if this man wasn't the one responsible for the snipings, he was probably responsible for something else just as bad.

"You're sick…" He said, "But I'm not the kind of doctor people like _you_ need. We're done here, Mr. Moran, you may go."

Without complaint, Moran stood and exited the room.

Doctor Watson passed him on his physical examination but recommended for psychological evaluation.

* * *

He found out later that Moran's father was a general and so Moran wouldn't be having any such evaluation or having any assignment he didn't want in the military.

Doctor Watson brought his concerns to his superior who said that without damning evidence it was very _unwise _to make such accusations against the respected sniper, the respected son of a respected general.

A week later, Doctor Watson also found out that he was being transferred—back to the 'battlefield'.

* * *

In this case the 'battlefield' meant being embedded with a platoon of around thirty soldiers hunting down members of Al Qaeda throughout the Kandahar province.

It was good for a while ('good' meaning exciting enough to keep him busy, since the violence, injuries and death were definitely _not_ good) and Doctor Watson was able to keep his mind off killings and the sniper who may or may not be responsible.

But one day the platoon had to return to Kabul for briefing.

As they traveled through the city, Doctor Watson warned the soldier driving the truck to avoid the certain strip of street where people got shot and so they did.

Big mistake.

Going a different way to their destination, slow through a crowded outdoor market, everyone in the vehicles heard the screams when a robed Afghan woman fell dead with tiny red hole in the only exposed part of her face.

Her children cried beside her as the shoppers and vendors rushed around in a panic, some trying to help and others trying to flee.

This, Doctor Watson realized later, was the _bait._

Seeing a women dead and children in danger, the four fellow soldiers with Doctor Watson jumped out of the truck just as he did to rush valiantly to the rescue.

Doctor Watson was pushing past the mob of people on the street, towards the dead woman and her children, when the first bullet whizzed past him and into a passerby.

He'd thought it was an accidental miss at first, due to all the movement and confusion, but then he saw the next bullet strike its target perfectly.

The soldier fell forwards, hit just beside his heart from behind.

Doctor Watson knew it was trap.

He _knew_…

But he didn't _care._

A man he'd been working beside for months (and had treated for injuries many times) was on the ground, bleeding out, _dying._

If the shooter had wanted him dead, he'd_ be_ dead…but _no._

The shooter wanted Doctor Watson to be kneeling beside him, trying to save his life, when _he himself_ was shot.

And that was exactly what happened.

* * *

But Doctor Watson didn't die.

The bullet had missed his head, got his shoulder instead.

Still the recovery was…difficult and the doctor learned what it really meant to be a patient.

And it was _worse_ than being a doctor, _worse_ than being a soldier. He couldn't _move_, he couldn't _do anything._

It was like being _nothing._

And so John went home.

* * *

**(London, England, 2012.)**

"So what happened to Moran after that?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know." John sighed, "I didn't have any proof that it was him for sure. I never saw him again after that one check-up.

"It was obviously him." Lestrade 'deduced', "He should have been court-martialed for what he did."

"_Maybe…"_ John considered, "But for all I know he _wasn't _the one doing the shootings." After all, I _am_ still alive…"

He and Lestrade started towards where Moran stood with all the other familiar characters who 'just happened' to be at the scene of the third explosion.

John had all intention of confronting Moran…

…and so did _Anthea, _it seemed.

Lestrade and John watched as Anthea's suited men aimed their guns at Moran who raised his hands in surrender.

"They're arresting him." Lestrade commented, "…Serves him right, even if he _didn't _kill those soldiers he's still helping cover up for Moriarty."

John nodded.

Anthea he men marched Moran away into the black van which then drove away through the smoke and the crowd.

_There was definitely more to this story…_

* * *

**The title of last chapter was sarcastic. **

**Jim and Molly are not a 'Happy Couple'.  
**

**They can't even go a day without arguing and they're completely incompatible.****  
**

**_That,_ of course, is why Jim _stays._  
**

**If Molly waslike him, he'd get bored. **

**He already _has_ reflection.  
**

**(Sherlock Holmes.)  
**

**And they do say that _opposites attract..._  
**


	9. that Haunts the Hunted

**I see a lot of people (on Tumblr, mostly lol) portraying Sebastian Moran as some lowclass thug with a gun from the street talking with bad grammar and a cockney accent. **

**Well, Wikipedia told me his dad was an ambassador in the original Sherlock Holmes books and so I went with something a little closer to that (general). **

**Wikipedia also told me about the Tankerville Club which appears in 'The Adventure of the Empty House' and the names 'Fred Porlock' (as a dead man's poetry-refrenced alias) and 'Ivy' which appear in 'The Valley of Fear'. **

**One day I may actually read these stories (as they are posted online: sherlock – holm . es / html / (spaces removed, of course))…**

… **but for now I'll keep writing and not reading anything with a paragraph longer than a single sentence (oh my eyes!—why do you think I type this way? Paragraphs confuse my tiny brain). **

**But because I love the show 'Sherlock' (and TV shows in general) much more than anything I'll ever read, I've still gotta put in my homie Jeff Hope, the taxi driver.**

**I've always liked him, probably cause my dad was kinda a taxi driver once in a while and Hope reminds me of a British and evil version of my deceased and daily missed (step) grandfather. **

**I love you! **

**And I love all my reviewers too—**

**(laal ratty, lesser mortal, NokNok JJ, Shenanigan, Shay-of-Awe, TheSmilingCat (4X)) **

—**did I say _reviewers?_**

**I meant readers. **

**I love all my _readers_ too.**

**Thank you so much for reading, I don't know what I'd do with my life if not this story. **

**You guys give me a purpose! Without this, I'd just be gazing into my computer screen, staring at stupid videos on YouTube and stupid pictures on Tumblr all day (summer). **

**Thanks sooooo much!**

**Lol.**

**I'll shut up now.**

* * *

**(2010.) **

The Tankerville Club was more than just _dying._

No, it was brain-dead on life-support.

Despite its rustic, classic London atmosphere (antique furniture, paintings on the walls, exotic decorations from the exotic (near _and_ far) East) it had been quickly fading into irrelevancy for decades, kept alive only by its dwindling membership (and their dwindling money).

It refused to update to modern times, and so was left with two options.

To stop being _so damn exclusive_ and let in the riff-raff (and _worse,_ the tourists looking for an 'authentic' experience)…

…or to close down.

Currently, the club was unsure on which choice to make and so lived in the limbo of limited patronage and limited finances (although still putting on the good show of being a classy, rich place).

Sebastian Moran actually hated the Tankerville Club.

The only reason he went there was because his father used to go there and even used to bring him along when he was a child (against the rules (no women, no children)) and so it was _nostalgic._

…_and_ because he could gamble there (that too).

And it was the gambling (as gambling did) had gotten poor Sebastian into trouble.

Even his_ (formerly_ very, now only _moderately)_ wealthy family no longer had the finances to replace what he'd lost (not that they were going to know about this).

And why gamble?

Well, there was nothing better to do…

Sebastian had never _wanted_ to be a sniper.

He'd wanted to be a soldier just like his father, _yes,_ but his father didn't want him on the front lines (like replaceable, interchangeable, _worthless_ pawn) in constant danger—especially fighting a war that nobody believed in, for foreigners in a little country nobody cared about.

And now that's he'd been…_'sent home on medical leave'_ (discreetly discharged), the only job Sebastian could get was working at the private military firm his father's friend owned _(_partially_,_ as it was a global company).

He'd just been occupying his time waiting for a worthwhile assignment (he got the privilege to pick) by trying out the 'fun games' he used to watch his father play when he was younger at the Tankerville Club.

…_and_ the owner's pretty daughter Ivy bartended there during daylight hours—when her father thought only _old men_ would be there (that too).

One such old man Sebastian had gambled with.

And lost to.

Sebastian never would have bet that much money (which never _used _to be 'that much' to him, growing up) in the first place had Ivy not been watching the only two men in the club (one young, muscular and handsome…the other old and wrinkly (but wise)) play their game from the reflection in a glass she was cleaning.

Sebastian had seen the game (the money) catch her eye and he knew if he won he'd finally win_ her_ too.

(Because just _looks _(and even personality) didn't matter to this young woman. She saw her father's (and her father's father's (and so on's)) business finally failing and as the only daughter (instead of the desired son) she knew she needed a rich man to keep it alive.)

But he'd _lost._

And so now, in shame and anger, Sebastian was back at the Tankerville Club the next day.

…with back up.

Ivy greeted Sebastian Moran and James Moriarty on their way in.

"It's a surprise to see someone new around here." She commented, sizing James up with a suspicious eye.

"My friend." Sebastian shrugged.

But Ivy didn't believe him.

Whoever this new guy was, he was older than Sebastian and definitely not military (all of Sebastian's friends that had ever come with him here had been).

"James." James introduced himself with a nod (and without a last name), and continued after Sebastian.

They didn't have time to stop and chat, they had a job to do.

Sebastian found Jefferson Hope at his usual table, smoking but not drinking and working on some documents.

He looked up and smiled.

"Ah, Mr. Moran. Come to donate more money to this poor old man—oh and I see you've brought a friend."

"You know you cheated to beat me." Sebastian growled.

Hope just shook his head, laughing.

"If saying that makes you feel better…" he allowed, then returning to his papers.

James glanced down at them.

"What are those?" he asked.

(They were obviously medical documents.)

"Oh—just a renewal of my taxi license." Hope lied, startled at first, quickly folding the papers and then flipping them upside-down.

"And a taxi driver comes to a place like this?" James raised an eyebrow, gesturing around at the fancy décor of the room.

"Owner can't afford the car service anymore." Hope explained, "I give him a ride to work for free every morning and in exchange I can come here and earn a bit of money when ever I feel like it."

"By cheating." Sebastian added.

"If you really believed I was a cheater," Hope tried, "why would you come back for a rematch?"

"Because I brought somebody cheating won't work on." Sebastian declared.

Hope turned from Sebastian to James.

"Who are you?" he inquired, "You count cards or something."

"I can." James affirmed.

It was why he was here, anyway.

Personally, he thought it was stupid and waste of time for the private military company to call in their sometimes accountant just to win back money an employee had lost off-the-job…

…but apparently the Morans were still important people in the military (and so the firm) or something (and either really needed the money back or had a very extreme pride—or both).

"Well let's just see who wins, then." Hope smiled, standing up and motioning to the seat across from him, "Sit down, please, Mr…?"

"James is fine." James corrected, feigning friendly and reaching out a hand to shake.

"Alright, James." Hope said, shaking the hand, "…let's play."

* * *

"How did you do it?" James asked when he'd lost.

"He cheated." Sebastian declared, quickly.

He'd watched the two older men play cards from the third chair, pulled up backwards to wooden table.

(And Sebastian hadn't been the _only_ one watching, either. Ivy had also watched…and so had all the taxidermy animals, with open jaws and sharp teeth, that had scared Sebastian when he was a little kid (and creeped him out when he was a teenager, too.))

He hadn't seen any_ proof_ of cheating but there was no other logical explanation.

James could count cards.

And Sebastian's bosses (as well as many other of London's businesses) trusted James with their money and numbers.

They'd assured Sebastian that this man would win his money back for him.

_And yet_ he'd lost a game of cards to a cabbie.

"I didn't cheat." Hope asserted, "…I'm just very good at this game."

"Why?" James questioned.

And it was a strange question to ask, really.

"I can read people." Hope admitted, "And I'm never wrong."

"You think you're _psychic?"_ Sebastian interpreted, rolling his eyes.

"No." Hope shrugged, "…I've just been driving my cab for a very long time. I know people."

"Well,_ I_ don't have time for this." Sebastian growled, standing up and pushing the chair out of his way, "You give me my money back, right now, or I'll_ take _it back."

"I don't think you will, Mr. Moran." Hope dismissed, "I already deposited it."

"You're going to give me that money back, _Mr._ Hope." Sebastian stated.

"Or what?" Hope laughed, "You'll _kill_ me?"

"Why not?" Sebastian shrugged.

"Go ahead and kill me, then." Hope invited, "I'm going to die soon anyway. I've got a terminal aneurism in my brain." He patted his hat (worn impolitely indoors) "You'll only be putting me out of my misery."

"Alright then." Sebastian agreed, pulling out a gun from his jacket pocket and pointing it at Hope, "Have a nice a day, _sir."_

"_Stop!"  
_  
All three men turned to see Ivy rushing towards the table from the bar, waving her hands frantically.

"What are you doing, Seb?" she exclaimed, "Put that away, you can't have that in here!"

Sebastian straightened, hastily returning the weapon to his pocket.

"…I'm sorry." He apologized.

Once Ivy had returned to her post, Hope laughed.

"I knew you weren't going to do it." Hope said, "You knew she would stop you."

"Yeah." Sebastian accepted, "And that's why you asked me to kill you. Because you knew it wouldn't happen."

"Oh, so you _have_ got a brain in that thick skull, after all." Hope chuckled up at him, "And when you calm down you know how to use it."

Sebastian rolled his eyes.

"I also know how to use a gun." He muttered, "…and Ivy won't be there to stop me when I come to your house at night and get my money back."

"The money's in a bank." Hope reminded, "Even if you _do_ kill me, you still won't get it back."

(So he kept the money _safe,_ he was willing to _die _for it, but it wasn't for his _personal_ use. He had family, then.)

_(Interesting…) _

"But you _won't_ kill him." James interjected.

He'd been quiet the entire conversation and so the two turned to look at him with raised eyebrows.

"Oh yeah?" Sebastian scoffed, "And why not?"

"Because I want you both to work for me." James stated.

* * *

**(2012.)**

And the rest, of course, was _history. _

(History meaning a poisoned people and blown up buildings.)

"Interesting story." Mycroft commented, "…even if it _was _just told to waste my time."

Moran shrugged, allowing himself to laugh.

_Once. _

But otherwise he remained completely expressionless as he glared at Mycroft from the chair he was handcuffed too.

Mycroft thought that Moran should have appreciated his accommodations more.

He hadn't locked the man in the dark cell he kept the_ prisoners_ in (dubbed the _'Sherlock Room'_ by his employees because of the decorating Moriarty had done during his stay) but in a well-lit office in a _reasonably_ comfortable chair.

After all, Moran _had_ come quietly and _was_ an employee of the powerful private military company that contracted with the British government.

He deserved at least _some _respect.

The office itself was empty but for the chair Moran sat in, the chair Mycroft sat across from him in and the desk between them.

"You're wasting your time keeping me here." Moran stated, "I'm not going to tell you anything. And your people won't be able to torture anything out of me. Who do you think trains your people? We don't teach them everything."

It was _true,_ too.

The private military employees had trained many government agents, some government agents even quit to join up with the firm and get better pay.

But the_ loyal_ ones had stayed and those were who Mycroft employed.

(_Those…_and those who also happened to know a little bit more than what that company taught.)

"I don't want to have you _tortured,_ Mr. Moran." Mycroft laughed, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back in his (more than just) reasonably comfortable chair, "I don't even need your information—about James Moriarty or about _anyone._ I just need a _scapegoat._ Someone to take the fall and to set things in motion…"

"Take the fall for what?" Moran demanded, "Set what in motion?"

But Mycroft only smiled.**  
**

* * *

**(2012 (again).)**

The first time Jim Moriarty ever held a gun on Molly Hooper was the summer of two-thousand and twelve after she'd almost confessed a 'secret' they both already knew and he'd asked for a different one.

If Molly had ever been afraid of Jim (and she _had,_ she definitely had) she was in _terror _now.

She realized it hadn't been_ real _until now—until she could feel the gun kissing the back of her neck and knew that even just a slip of his finger would end her life.

All Molly had ever known of Jim (the criminal, the killer) had all been _reputation _(the criminal, the killer)_._

Only his _name…_

Molly had never _seen_ Jim kill anyone and he'd never used violence against _her._

(She'd known that he _could,_ of course, if he'd _wanted _to…but he hadn't and so she'd thought he _didn't _want to (she wasn't _worth _it).)

It's not like she'd forgotten who_ (what) _he was, what he could _(would)_ do…

…it's just he hadn't ever done it to her and so (naively, stupidly (hopefully)) she'd believed that perhaps she was _special_ to Jim.

Special or _nothing._

It made _sense,_ didn't it?

Either Jim didn't _want _to hurt Molly, or she wasn't _worth_ hurting.

Molly had thought she was _safe._

Now she remembered how _patient _Jim actually was, how long he was willing to _wait _to do something that he wanted to do.

Jim was chuckling now, to himself but for Molly's 'benefit'.

They crossed the field of tall grass back towards the manor, him pushing her along from behind with the gun.

Every so often she'd stumble over rocks.

Once she even fell forwards, down to her knees.

Jim had released the safety of the gun, as if he was going to shoot her right there but Molly jolted but she didn't glance back at the click to look at him.

She didn't _want_ to look at him.

She was scared of what she'd see on his face.

And when nothing happened, Molly rose to her feet and they continued walking.

They passed the clearing where Toby had caught the mouse.

The mouse was dead—but not of it's slow bleeding wounds.

No, it had been _stepped on. _

(Crushed to a quick death (put out of its misery).)

Molly had never been squeamish but she looked away.

Where was Toby?

The entire journey back to the abandoned mansion, Molly didn't see her cat and when she and Jim went inside, he wasn't there either.

Molly just hoped Toby was hiding somewhere, she didn't want him seeing _this_…and she didn't want Jim finding him.

Once inside the empty manor, Jim led Molly downstairs to dark basement.

There the generator whirred loudly (and could muffle any screams (which wouldn't be heard anyway in the uninhabited countryside)) next to an oversized metal refrigerator.

Jim didn't explain, but he'd left the doors expressively _open_ and Molly to her 'deductions'.

In bloody, translucent bags the various chopped pieces of deer meet sat in the shelf-less fridge.

The antlered deer head was not bagged and stared at Molly with dead eyes.

And it was _so cold._

A frosty mist breathed from the refrigerator causing Molly to shiver.

"Strip." Jim ordered.

He tapped her with the gun when she didn't move, adding _"Now."_

Hurriedly, Molly pulled of her clothes.

The room was dark enough that she didn't feel _completely _embarrassed and it wasn't as if Jim hadn't seen her naked before.

Molly's back was still to him, but she could _feel _him watch her undress.

She wondered what the expression on his face was; triumphant? hungry? _bored…?_

She didn't turn to look at him.

And then it was only goosebumps clothing her body in the cold and dark basement of the abandoned house.

"On the table." Jim directed.

It took Molly a few seconds to find the table, it was metal (much like her morgue table at the hospital) but larger.

It wasn't meant for humans.

Wiped clean, only somebody _experienced_ would recognize that the table had had been washed and sterilized of not just blood_stains_, but _pools of blood. _

Molly 'deduced' that this table had been used to chop up deer that had been hunted in the nearby woods by whoever had owned this place before Jim's brother.

She stepped cautiously towards the table, tentatively touching its surface with her fingertips and instantly pulling away.

Its cold had burned her.

Jim laughed.

Not at her pain, _not reall_y…but because he knew what she thought he was going to do to her next.

"I'm not going to_ rape_ you." he scoffed, "Like I'd really let you get off _that_ easy for lying to me…No, you wanted a_ villain_—not some ordinary lowlife _rapist. _So get on that table, Molly, and I'll give you what you want."

Molly took a breath, anticipating the piercing cold to come (anticipating the unknown) as she raised herself onto the metal table.

She heard footsteps behind her.

"Lie down." Jim said.

She did.

"Face up." Jim added, "I want to _look_ at you."

But she didn't want to look at him.

She closed her eyes and did as she was told, feeling the frigid metal against her back.

Suddenly, she heard a clang—felt it vibrate across the table.

It caused her to startle and forced her eyes open.

She saw that Jim had slammed the gun down by her feet.

_If she could only reach…_

But Molly didn't dare move.

"Comfortable?" Jim asked.

She looked up to see Jim standing over her on the other side of the table than the refrigerator and the generator.

He wasn't sneering but he wasn't glaring, either.

His face was _blank,_ his eyes _empty… _

So this was the real Jim.

This was the black hole that had sucked her in using the false charm and stolen smiles of all the other entities it had taken and destroyed.

There he was.

And then he was gone.

Jim was Moriarty again, smirking as removed his suit-jacket (much more gracefully than Molly could (and did) disrobe, tossing it nonchalantly to the floor (the way he knew made Molly _cringe)_ where it landed on top of the pile of her folded (yes she'd folded it, despite everything she couldn't _not _fold it) clothing.

Then he was rolling up his shirt sleeves.

He was ready to work.

"It's really _perfect,_ just so perfect." He stated, pacingback and forth beside the table_,_ "A villain's 'torture chamber' in a dark basement, left behind here _just for me and you."_

She refused to meet his eyes.

The dead deer head still stared at Molly from the refrigerator blowing out freezing fog into the room.

She didn't want to look at it or Jim, so she gazed up at the wooden ceiling.

Jim was humming now, to himself but for Molly's 'benefit'.

She recognized the tune but she couldn't place it.

Then he stopped.

Jim crossed the room, brushing his hand against Molly's bare skin he passed the metal table.

Then she heard music.

Playing from a radio, it was choppy and muffled because they were underground.

Jim searched through the static, changing from news, to pop, to classical, to oldies.

"I thought we needed a little _'mood music'."_ He explained, "Any requests?"

"Please, just stop this." Molly requested (still not knowing exactly what_ 'this'_ even _was(…_but knowing it wouldn't be_ good))._

"But _this_ is what you asked for." Jim reminded, _"This_ is what you _want."_

"It's not—"

Jim interrupted Molly by increasing the radio's volume to blast jarring static.

"They've always got music playing while they work, you know, in the movies... There's the cultured psychopath who listens to classical, the deranged clown who likes pop, the raging occultist who blasts heavy-metal…but _you,_ my love, strike me as an easy-listening kinda girl. And all this is for _you. _I want to make_ you_ comfortable."

"Then let me go."

"Get up and walk away."

(See what happens.)

Jim gestured to the stairs.

Molly didn't move.

"I didn't think so." Jim chuckled, leaving the radio to walk past her again, "You won't leave me and you know it. You don't even _want_ to."

It was true.

And not just _now,_ too.

It had always been true as long as she'd known him.

They were in this 'relationship' because he wanted to be(it didn't matter if she did or not).

They had sex when _he_ wanted to, they did what _he_ wanted to do, they went where _he_ wanted to go.

It was _him._

Him or _nothing. _

This was all him.

And as much as Molly liked to pretend she had some control over her life, she now had to admit that she _didn't. _

All the 'choices' she'd made were made because _he'd_ allowed her to make them; he'd just been _humoring_ her.

Yes, he _could _have just used force in the beginning…but then there wouldn't have been _the game. _

It was much more _satisfying_ for the winner (Jim) to win fairly, instead of by cheating.

And much more _humiliating _for the loser (Molly) to lose without even putting up a fight.

(It wasn't that Molly_ minded_ being a loser (she'd _always _been a loser, she was used to it)…it was just that she'd thought she'd finally_ tied_ with someone—been able to _share_ a victory and it was finding out that she was wrong _(again)_ that really broke her.)

The buzzing music was changing genres again as Jim tried to decide on a station.

Molly lay there in silence; shivering, heart pounding and mind racing.

She wondered what Jim was thinking.

How _far _would he take this?

Had he decided what to do yet or could she still change his mind?

How long had he been planning to do this?

Would he _kill _her?

Or just_ hurt_ her?

And why was he being so_ slow_ about it?

Molly kept waiting for Jim.

Waiting for him to hurt her.

Waiting for him to laugh and tell her this was all just a _joke._

Waiting for him to be the nice Jim again—even if it wasn't _real_ and _that_ was all just the joke.

And she was_ still_ waiting.

Now the background music was some old, cheesy love song set to slow piano and strings.

"So many choices…" Jim mused, trailing his fingers along the concrete wall of the basement.

On the wall one rack of different kinds of guns, and another rack of different kinds of knives.

He picked up a _uniquely_ shaped knife and examined it, glancing back to smile at Molly.

Molly watched him, afraid to look but unable to look away

When Jim's back was turned again and he'd put the knife back, Molly's arm (the one on the side he wasn't on) started it's shaking reach towards the gun at the end of the table while Molly tried to keep the rest of her body still.

(But if she _did_ grab the gun, what would she even do with it? She'd never shot a gun before and Jim knew it too.)

Just as she was about to grab it, she heard Jim hiss in pain turned to look.

He was holding a different knife in one hand, and sucking on a bleeding finger of the other hand.

"And that, kids, is why you don't play with knives." Jim shrugged when he saw Molly staring.

"You don't have to do this." She told him (not knowing exactly what_ 'this'_ even _was(…_but knowing it wouldn't be _good))._

"That's what they all say." Jim dismissed, "The _victims,_ I mean. You're playing your part just right."

"This isn't a game." Molly stated.

"Yes it is." Jim declared, "It _always_ is."

He approached Molly and the metal table, the new knife (blade creatively curved) still in his hand and still wet with his blood.

"So it was all a game, then." Molly interpreted, mournfully, _generally _"Everything you said, everything we did..._all of it?" _

She wanted tostall him.

"Yes." Jim answered certainly, shortly.

He knew what she was doing.

"I don't believe you." Molly attempted.

"I don't expect you to." Jim returned, "I'm a very good liar."

And then, abruptly, Molly was sitting up and staring Jim in the eyes.

"You're lying now." Molly asserted, "You're not going to hurt me."

Jim laughed, shaking his head.

"The funny thing about that is I never _was. _I was really having fun playing your boyfriend….But then you had to go and _lie _to me. And every time you say _'oh hurry up and do what you're gonna do' _or _'you don't have it in you, Jim, you won't do it'…" _(he spoke in a nasally, exaggeratedly high-pitched voice mocking hers) "…well, you're really just _asking for it, _then."

"I didn't ask for _this."_

And she still didn't know what 'this' was.

But she knew she would find out soon.

"Lay back, please." Jim asked with mocking manners.

Molly followed his order (—quickly, too, so he wouldn't be able to push her down the way he was reaching out to do).

Jim stood over Molly again.

He examined her naked body with cruel and ridiculing scrutiny, taking care to focus on the parts she felt most insecure about.

"…_where to start, where to start…"_ he muttered to himself, but for her benefit.

He tapped the blade against his tongue pensively.

But he was only tasting his _own_ blood, not _hers._

Not_ yet. _

There was still time and the gun was still there, _so close_ Molly that she could tap it with her toe.

She did, just to make sure she could.

Jim noticed.

"_There."_ he grinned, "I'll start _small _and work my way up from the bottom."

Still, Jim decided to take the long way.

He scraped the knife against the metal table so it screeched until it was beside Molly's ear.

He traced the blade around her head (cutting some stray strands of hair and taking them for himself) and then down the other side of her body until he reached her feet.

Now there was a thin, red line down her side.

It didn't hurt and it didn't bleed.

If Molly couldn't see it right in front of her, she wouldn't have known it was there.

This knife was a like a medical tool, Molly realized, so sharp that it separated skin without drawing blood.

Like the kind of clean incision she'd make on a corpse, except not nearly as deep.

_Shallow. _

It would heal quickly and easily—if it had the _chance_ to.

"This little piggy went to market..." Jim began, bent so he was eye level with her foot.

She saw him cut her pinky toe first, then the one after that and the one after that…

…then she _felt _him cut her big toe.

She held in her gasp at the unexpected pain.

Jim looked up at Molly disappointedly, even _pleadingly. _

"I won't scream." Molly told him, "No matter what you do. I won't give you the satisfaction."

"That's what they all say…" Jim repeated, with a sigh and returned to his earlier 'work'.

Molly jerked her leg away from him and so he had to hold her ankle down in place.

It was a reflex.

A _mistake._

Jim rose to full height again.

"I like this game, _playing doctor..." _He said, "You can play dead for me, if you'd like, and I can play pathologist. Cut you open like one of your 'friends' in the morgue…"

He placed the curved tip of the knife _lightly_ in the indentation of tendon in-between bone on her ankle caused by stretching out the leg.

There was also a vein there.

If he pressed down, even only very slightly, she'd bleed which each heartbeat.

Instead, Jim ran the smooth and not sharp side against the skin of Molly's leg until it rested just under the knee.

He tapped as if he was trying to cause another reflex, but instead scraped the sensitive part of the knee instead.

(Of course, being a man, Jim didn't realize how often women cut themselves on their legs shaving and how accustomed to that pain Molly had become.)

"Screaming _does_ make it feel better." Jim informed when Molly sucked in a quiet breath.

And maybe she _should_ scream, Molly reasoned.

Then Jim would 'win' and she would 'lose' and this would _stop_ before it got any worse.

But Jim wouldn't_ believe_ her if she screamed at just a skinned knee.

Even she wasn't _that_ weak.

She wasn't a _child._

Jim brought the blade up even further now, past her knee and then her thigh.

He left it cold and waiting on her stomach, while he lowered his ear to her chest feel how fast her heart was pumping.

Jim's hands and his breath were the only warmth Molly's could feel in the entire room.

It didn't help and every hair on her body stood.

Jim stood, too.

But not before kissing her where he'd been listening,_ right on her heartbeat._

(And maybe he'd just sucked the life out of her, maybe he'd just stolen her soul...or maybe those had both already happened long before.)

"It's the adrenaline." Jim explained, "It'll keep you awake through the pain, even when you should've passed out. Even when you should've _died_…_If you don't scream." _

And if she screamed now, would he stop?

If she kissed him now, would he stop?

…_if she snatched the gun and pointed it at him, would he stop? _

"That's why you have to scream." Jim continued, "It releases the tension. Let's you relax, slip away…"

His smile was so serene.

And then the knife was in his hand again and at her throat.

If it sliced through, she wouldn't be _able_ to scream.

She could already feel the blood trickling down her neck…

And Jim didn't use the knife to taste it this time.

No, he used his finger.

He reached down to collect the stream as thin as a teardrop and then showed the red to Molly before he brought it to his lips.

"Always tastes like metal, _nothing special…"_ he commented, "But that's what the bad guys do. The villains, the vampires, the serial killers. They _drink blood._ Some even eat _human flesh_—but _I_ have _taste,_ at least. Even_ I_ have _limits…_and I don't even_ like_ serial killers. Same type of victim, same way of killing, same fear and fascination by the public every time. Same, same,_ same_… it's so _boring!_ I don't know why anyone would think it's sexy—do _you_ think it's sexy, Molly?"

"…No, I don't I—"

"_Good_…and you don't think _vampires _are sexy, either, do you?"

"I don't! I don't! Please, Jim, just _stop!" _

Molly could feel the tears (of frustration, fear, hopelessness), in her eyes now and she let them fall.

Begging usually _worked_ on Jim, but this time it _didn't._

And Molly didn't like _the look _on Jim's face now.

A smirk that teased malice.

She squinted her eyes shut.

"You know, in way this is all _my _fault, really…" Jim mused, "…I should have never let you get so _comfortable._ Women get _lazy_ when they're comfortable. I should have never let you _forget _to be afraid of me."

"I never forgot." Molly mumbled, "I never stopped being afraid you…"

"Then you're stupider than I thought." Jim insulted, _"…unless…_No. Wait. Don't tell me. _Is this turning you on…?"_

He snickered.

Eyes still closed, Molly choked on a sob.

"Look at me." Jim requested, "Eye contact is _everything_, darling, you know that_." _

But she kept her eyes shut.

Jim groaned.

"Look, Molly, if you don't look you won't see it coming."

"…See what coming?"

"_The KNIFE!" _

Molly's eyes flew open at Jim's shout just in time to see the blade rushing back towards her neck at full speed.

_She screamed._

Molly _screamed._

Nobody heard it, of course, over the music and the whir of the generator in the empty mansion in the middle of nowhere.

But Molly screamed.

She _finally_ screamed.

And that was all Jim had ever wanted.

The knife dropped from his grasp, clanging onto the metal table.

His hand clenched around her neck instead, the other hand covering her mouth and nose.

Molly struggled, legs and arms flailing (the knife and gun were both knocked off the table) as Jim too struggled to hold her down.

Finally she ran out of breath and stopped screaming.

* * *

When Molly awoke she was alone in the cold basement.

She didn't know how long she'd been out.

The refrigerator door was closed and the radio was off. Even the generator was turned off.

It was _silent _and blackness was all Molly could see.

She felt the table beneath her, cold and metal, and stood up.

A few of her toes hurt as she walked barefoot on the concrete floor until she stepped on her own clothes.

She pulled them on (not too difficult, despite the darkness) and then a jacket that 'just happened' to be there—only for the warmth in the cold room, of course.

Then Molly found the gun.

So carefully she picked up of the ground in the dark, afraid it might accidently shoot her if she just touched it.

Once it was pointed safely away from her (and at the dark unknown in front of her) Molly tightened her grip.

(Two hands and straight arms, like the pretty police ladies in the movies.)

Slowly, tentatively, (fearfully), Molly climbed the stairs to the main level.

They creaked anyway.

And then her footsteps were loud against the hardwood floors.

She'd have no element of surprise.

But what if Jim was _gone? _

…Well, that would be _good._

No_ it_ wouldn't.

Why not?

Because that would mean Jim was off chasing Sherlock.

That's why.

_Definitely. _

Molly crept through the dark, empty rooms of the dark, empty manor, waving the gun around as she went through each doorway and finding nothing.

_No one. _

…and then she did.

Candlelight flickered against the walls and in the flickering candlelight Molly could see Jim.

And _Toby,_ too.

They were seated on some sort of picnic-blanket (she didn't know where it had come from).

Also seated on the picnic-blanket was a paper shopping-bag.

When Jim saw Molly he reached forwards and into the bag, pulling _something _out.

Instantly, Molly pulled what had to be the trigger of the gun.

The gun clicked but didn't fire.

"Safety's on." Jim told her, "And it's empty. The only bullet's stuck in a tree."

The gun dropped from Molly's hands and clattered of the floor with a loud thud.

Molly opened her mouth to speak but it almost came out a sob and so she shut it.

Jim continued retrieving the something, a sandwich wrapped in plastic, out from the paper-bag.

"I drove back to the town we passed." He explained, "Got us some dinner and few things."

That meant she must have been asleep at least an hour.

Molly just stared at Jim; unable to speak, unable to move, unable to do anything else but just _stare. _

"…why did you do it?" she finally asked.

"Thought we might get hungry." Jim shrugged.

"You know what I mean!" Molly cried.

Her volume startled Toby who leaped up from the blanket and out of the room, almost knocking over a candle on his way.

"Inside voices." Jim chided, rising to his feet and extending his arms both defensively and in offer of a sandwich, "…now would you like a sandwich?"

"I don't want anything from you!" Molly declared, smacking the wrapped food out of his hand.

He caught her wrist.

"Stop it." he ordered, "Calm down and let's eat."

He attempted to pull them both down to sit on the blanket but Molly held herself standing in place.

"No." she refused.

"_Molly—" _Jim tried

"No!" Molly exclaimed, "No, you can't just act like nothing _happened—"_

"But nothing did happen. _Nothing." _

"Yes it _did!" _

"_Really?_ Did I _hurt_ you? _Seriously,_ I mean? Anything more than a couple of scratches here and there?"

"No, but you—"

"I didn't do anything to you, Molly, that you didn't do to me. You put _me_ on a table, I put_ you _on a table. You jabbed _me _with a needle, I nicked _you_ a bit with a knife. I consider us _even." _

And Jim _did _have a point, Molly recognized—but only if one considered just those two incidents.

"But what about all the other things? All the _games,_ all the _lies…"_

"You mean the _words?" _

"Yes!"

Jim chuckled

"They're just words." He dismissed, _"Nothing,_ right?"

"…_No."_ Molly shook her head.

And then Jim smiled.

"Words are powerful things, I'm glad you understand now." He said, "Ever since you found out who I am, you've been afraid of me—not because of anything you'd seen but just because of what you'd heard people say. I never threatened you because I didn't _have_ to. My reputation was enough to make you do anything I wanted you to do, _without me even having to say a word."_

"But when you do talk its lies, it's always lies!" Molly reminded.

"Not 'always'—"

"You said you'd never lied to me, that you'd never lie to me—but that was a lie—"

"No it wasn't!"

"Yes it was! That was another lie!"

"Listen to me—"

"No!"

"_Yes!" _

Jim grabbed Molly's face, holding it by the cheeks so that she was forced to look at him but also to stop speaking.

"You need to judge less what people _say,_ and more what people _do._ My _words_ may have lied to you but my _actions _never did. Words are so powerful because they're so _versatile._ They have so many _definitions,_ so many _interpretations_—they can mean _anything _and _they're so easily twisted_…Actions, however, are _not._ They are what they are. Nothing more, nothing less."

Molly glanced down, shaking her head until Jim let go of it.

"But people have_ reasons_ for the things they do—"

"Not _always._ And _no one_ can read minds. Not even Sherlock Holmes, not even me. The best anyone can do is_ guess_ and we can never know for _sure._ So why bother even _trying?"_

"It all sounds true, it all sound nice…_But I know it's not real._ It's just more words, more lies…"

Jim threw his now free hands up in the air in exasperation.

"All words are lies, then! There's no 'universal definition' for _anything!_ Everybody means the same things differently, sees the same things differently, _thinks _differently…_Nothing is real!_ There's _no such thing_ as 'real'—"

"Maybe not for _you._ But for most people there _is._ For _me _there is."

Molly glared at Jim who ran his hand through his hair, groaning.

"See this is why smart people don't like to talk about their feelings." He complained, "Sometimes there aren't _words_ for what we _think_ and _feel._ The certain emotions—concepts—_things._ There aren't—there's just not…there's nothing. Just nothing."

"Maybe for you." Molly repeated, bitterly "Not for me."

"…_that's it."_ Jim sighed, "I'm just not going to talk anymore tonight. There's no point. There's nothing I can say." He sank to a seated position, "Leave if you want, but I know you'll stay—I don't know_ why_ and I won't _ask,_ but I know you will. And maybe tomorrow we can wake up and pretend this was all a bad dream, act like nothing happened and never talk about it again. How about that, Molly, is that okay?"

Jim gazed up at Molly.

His face was _blank_ and his eyes were _empty…_

But maybe there was something beneath that, _inside _of him.

Molly said _nothing; _neither_ 'yes'_ nor _'no'._

But she _did_ sit down across from him_—motivation for that action?_

Then they quietly ate their cold, plastic-wrapped sandwiches_—motivation for that action? _

When they were finished eating Molly cleaned up the trash into the paper-bag, then removing it so that the blanket's surface was cleared and soft while Jim put out the candles_—motivation for that action?_

And then they lied down_—motivation for that action?_

Jim didn't pull Molly any closer to him_—motivation for that action?_

But Molly didn't pull away from Jim either_—motivation for that action?_

And maybe they lied awake or maybe they eventually fell asleep, but all that night they lay together in silence, and they didn't move_—motivation for that action?_

Except to breathe_._

_Motivation for that action? _

_Motivation for that action?_

* * *

__**For the record, I think feet are disgusting. **

**I had more to explain but I've forgotten now.  
**

**It's 4:16 in the morning lol.  
**

**If you have questions, please ask and I'll explain.  
**

**Also, please review!  
**


	10. Follow

**Wow…I didn't think it was that serious. I'm sorry. I had no idea it would affect everyone that much. **

**I'm sorry. **

**Thanks to all those who reviewed anyway, too! **

_**TheSmilingCat**_

_**My Beautiful Ending**_

_**Guest**_

_**lesser mortal**_

_**AppleGirlin**_

_**Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat.**_

_**Logical Fallacy (2X)**_

_**NokNok JJ**_

_**FlyingPigMonkey  
**_

**Basically what I have to explain is that Jim didn't want to hurt Molly but if she 'called his bluff' and he _didn't_ do anything then he'd look weak and stupid and she'd win. **

**Jim doesn't let anyone beat him. **

**But it wasn't actually serious what he did. Shallow, unpainful wounds. Like shaving cuts, really. We ladies survive those all the time. **

**He was making a point, he wasn't trying to hurt her. **

**And she didn't get physically hurt, she was just emotionally hurt because she obviously didn't want him to do that. **

**But before you feel too bad for Molly, remember that she did kinda paralyze Jim and trap him in the morgue for three days. **

**Jim didn't just 'forgive' her for that, he just bided his time to get his revenge. **

**And to him, it's just part of the game, just what makes their relationship interesting to him (and readers, too, hopefully). He would love to go back and forth forever.**

**Molly, of course, would not lol. **

**I hope that clears everything up and again I am sorry. **

**I hope I didn't disturb anybody. **

**And like I always say, please don't hate me!**

* * *

_Sherlock. _

_Jim Moriarty is alive and he knows you are too._

_He'll be coming for you.__  
_

_I don't know when and I don't know what he'll do but I know he'll try to do something.  
_

_I'm so sorry. _

_For everything. _

—_Molly_

* * *

When you wake up, you first try to remember your dreams.

_(Fuzzy and full of emotion, like bits of memories that can't be placed and don't make sense anymore now that you're awake.) _

Then you remember where you are.

_(Safe at home, warm in your own bed? Somewhere unfamiliar where you don't belong?) _

You let the morning and the atmosphere greet you as you float slowly into consciousness.

_All is well,_ even if it's _not._

And then you remember what happened the night before.

_Everything_ that happened before, your _life. _

You remember who you are.

Molly and Jim opened their eyes.

The intangible, invisible force that allows you to _just know_ because you _feel _awoke them at the same time the way it awakes you only a minute before your alarm.

Toby, however, it did not wake and the cat was still sleeping.

On top of them.

It was actually a sunny day today, and he was stretched out equally across their chests absorbing the sunlight and warmth that beamed in through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, casting lines of light and darkness across the room.

(Uneven, scattered but equal lines that coexisted next to each other, despite their contrast, and did not compete.)

Jim and Molly felt the warm weight on them and found themselves unable to move.

They looked at Toby first, then at each other.

They couldn't help but laugh, _at first…_

But then they remembered what had happened the night before. _Everything_ that had happened before.

Then they remembered _who they_ _were. _

* * *

"Anything I can get you, make you more comfortable?" Mycroft asked.

Moran rolled his eyes.

The employee (gray uniform instead of a black suit) released Moran from his handcuffs and even exited the office (leaving Mycroft an 'easy' target), but Moran knew he was being watched (and guessed that Mycroft's desk probably had a panic-button, too).

"Yeah." He snorted, "Bring back the pretty brunette. What was her name again? _Athena _or something?"

"I wouldn't know." Mycroft shrugged, "It's all Greek to me."

He chuckled at his own joke and Moran rolled his eyes.

_Again. _

He was beginning to get tired of this guy.

Mycroft leaned back comfortable in his chair, opening the newspaper he'd brought in with him this morning.

Moran scanned the headline.

'_London Bomber Captured'_

He then went on to read the first lines.

'_The city can finally return to normal now that Sebastian Moran, the cause of the three non-fatal explosions, has been arrested.'_

'_The ex-sniper was working on behalf of an unknown businessman who funds terrorist organizations and recently defected to Iran, bringing with him British money and secrets.'_

'_Moran is also responsible for killing at least eight British and American soldiers in Afghanistan, proving that he was a secret agent for Al Qaeda his entire military career.' _

'_He also worked for a prominent private military firm but betrayed them obey the anonymous terrorist.' _

'_Authorities are searching the globe for his employer who gave him the orders to spread panic and terror throughout London and request anyone with information on this unnamed man to turn him in.' _

Moran rolled his eyes a third time, but Mycroft could not see due the paper in front of his face and so Moran had to make another audible snort of dismissal and disapproval.

Mycroft set down the newspaper on the desk.

"I take it your not a fan of my fiction." He gathered.

"It won't work." Moran sated, "Now my employer will never come out of hiding and you'll never find him."

"Of course we will." Mycroft laughed, "Everyone in the business-world knows exactly who you were employed by. And now that _you've_ been arrested, no one will give him shelter."

"What about the 'terrorists'?" Moran suggested, "I'm sure they'll be happy to help their new 'ally'."

"_Perhaps…"_ Mycroft allowed, "But _your employer_ won't be happy to help _them._ He doesn't want to be linked to _any _criminals. And so now he's left with two options."

"And what are those?" Moran took the bait.

"Come back to London to 'set the record straight' or be hunted down and captured." Mycroft declared, "Both result in him being in my custody."

"We'll see." Moran said.

"We _will."_ Mycroft said.

Moran glared at Mycroft who smiled pleasantly back at him.

"Your employee…" Moran began.

"The dark-haired goddess?" Mycroft teased.

"No. The man who was just here." Moran corrected, "…he's not yours, is he?"

"Not technically." Mycroft explained, "I'm only borrowing him and a few of his coworkers—"

"From the defense-contracting firm." Moran completed, "I know. I recognize them. Used to work with some of them…are you sure you can trust them?"

"Yes." Mycroft affirmed, "They company alerted my people to your whereabouts, leading to your arrest and they've already assured me that the men guarding your employer will bring him to me."

"_Really?"_ Moran asked, skeptically.

"…but, in case they _don't…"_ Mycroft continued, "I still have my best employees out looking for him. That's why I'm renting out these soldiers. I only give them with _domestic_ duties, though. Right here at 'home' where I can watch them."

"So you _don't_ trust them, then." Moran reasoned.

"No, I do." Mycroft countered, "But I still trust _my _men more."

"Well, the company's men are better." Moran argued.

"No, they're not." Mycroft scoffed, "They hire just _anyone,_ it seems. Even a sniper who's known to be a little _too '_friendly' with his 'fire'."

"I've _mellowed _since my military days." Moran dismissed, "Once I had something to do_,_ I didn't have that _problem_ anymore."

"Oh, so you have that burning need for action _too,_ I see." Mycroft accepted (sarcastically), _"_It's quite _maladaptive_ in this day and age. I've never much understood it myself. I could spend my whole life behind a desk and never get bored."

"You'd get _fat."_ Moran told him.

"There are worse things that could happen." Mycroft shrugged, "I could get killed if I went _outside._ Besides, that's what dieting's for."

"What dieting is for is _women."_ Moran snorted.

"Well, women_ like_ men that can understand them and their troubles." Mycroft reminded.

"Yeah," Moran agreed, then adding "But men like _that_ don't usually like _women." _with a laugh.

Mycroft laughed as well.

He was beginning to like this guy.

"You're awfully chatty today, Mr. Moran." He commented.

"It's an interrogation." Moran reasoned, "I'm _supposed _to talk, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are." Mycroft confirmed, "And I appreciate a prisoner who can hold a conversation. The last ones have been a bit _boring…"_

"This reminds me of the stupid counseling sessions they made me go to after I left the army." Moran recalled, "You're wasting your time and I'm wasting mine."

"I disagree." Mycroft smiled, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship..."

* * *

There wasn't much to say, really.

_Just: _

"Is there warm water in the shower?"

"Yes."

_And:_

"The clothes are in the car."

"I'll go get them."

Molly was polite, quiet and _distant._

She avoiding Jim's gaze and when their eyes did meet, hers were…_somewhere else. _

Not empty—just _gone. _

When they would be back, Jim did not know.

When _she_ would be back, Jim did not know.

There were no towels and so Molly used what she had worn yesterday to dry herself as she exited the shower in the bathroom upstairs.

They were wrinkled already and now they were wet.

But Jim's suit-jacket was neatly folded and dry.

_She'd tried to return it to him: _

"Here, this is yours."

"Keep it. I have others."

"It's fine. Take it—"

"No. Keep it."

"No."

And so now Toby had made a new bed (replacing his human one) on the folded jacket, sleeping the morning away while Molly and Jim got ready in almost-absolute silence.

When Molly stepped, hair still dripping, out of the bathroom Jim was waiting for her in the dim hallway.

He was holding out an outfit he'd picked out for her (from the shopping-bags (from the mall)) towards her.

It wasn't her normal style, but she took it anyway and changed back in the bathroom.

When she emerged again (this time wearing a lavender sundress) Jim was still there.

"It suits you." He said, admiring Molly in the dress he had chosen.

"Your turn." She said, not looking at him as she stepped aside to let him use the shower.

And she hadn't used all the hot water, too. She wasn't happy with him, but she wasn't being spiteful, either.

Jim wondered what Molly was thinking.

After taking a quicker shower than he preferred to and also using yesterday's clothes as a towel, he hurried out of the bathroom (this time wearing an olive suit).

And Molly _wasn't _gone.

She was standing there in the middle of the hall, staring at him.

Her eyes had _returned. _

_She_ had returned.

"You're going to go after Sherlock, aren't you?" she stated, evenly.

"Yes." Jim stated, evenly "I am."

"Why?"

"Because it's what I do. I don't ask 'why'."

"You know it'll never end then."

"I know…But doesn't_ everyone_ want something that lasts forever? _Someone…" _

Jim tried to smile.

Molly tried to take a breath.

"You didn't ask me anything about him. You didn't try to get any information out of me."

"That's because I know you don't _have _any. You said it yourself, Sherlock doesn't trust you anymore."

"Then _why_…why did you do it? All that…just—just for _fun?"_

"Why did _you? _You acted as if you knew something about Sherlock when you didn't. You let me do 'all that' to you without saying a word about him…You were _stalling_ me. _Distracting_ me."

"Yes."

"You've already warned him that I know."

"Yes."

Jim chuckled.

Molly sighed.

"Still not 'choosing a side', then, Molly?...Or are you back on _Sherlock's_ now?"

"No, Jim. I'm _here._ With _you." _

"You didn't tell Sherlock what happened, did you?"

"I _didn't._ But what I don't understand is, if you _knew_ I didn't know anything…why not just go off looking for Sherlock, why waste time with _me?" _

"Because that wasn't_ about _Sherlock! It was about _me_ and _you._ About _us." _

Molly blinked at that, surprised.

Jim was glad he could still surprise her.

But then she turned away from him, shaking her head down at the floor.

"How can there even _be _an 'us', after what happened…?" she asked.

Jim took Molly's hand, unexpectedly and so she looked up at him.

"How can there _not?"_ he asked.

* * *

Where was Sherlock?

All of his brother's employees were out searching the world for James Moriarty and Sherlock would have been able to evade their tail, anyway.

But Sherlock couldn't hide from Anthea.

She knew better than to try and follow _Sherlock_ (who would notice he was being followed and escape).

She would be following the wrong man, then.

No, Anthea knew that all you had to do to find Sherlock Holmes was to find _John Watson._

The businesswoman was in her office when two men knocked and entered.

They looked professional, yes, but not in the same way.

_Military,_ maybe?

Or _police?_

"Hello, ma'am." The gray-haired man greeted, "I'm Detective Inspector Dimmock and this is…um…"

"Sergeant Anderson." The blond man identified himself.

"…_Okay…" _the woman acknowledged, looking up from her computer screen, "How can I help you?"

"We need to talk to you about when you were robbed by Moriarty." The first man stated.

"Oh, so you two actually_ believe_ me." the woman laughed, "Nobody took me seriously at the police station. They said Moriarty was _dead._ They said he wasn't _real._ They said_ I_ was _crazy!" _

"We know he was real and we know he's still alive." The second man declared.

"But how did you know it was him?" the first asked.

"That's easy." The businesswoman smiled, "It was_ his_ bank account. There was a message left for him with _his_ name on it."

"A _message?"_ the first man repeated, "From _who?" _

"A strange name." the woman shrugged, _"Mycroft Holmes…"_

* * *

"_First_ Mycroft's people arrest Sebastian Moran and next day the news is saying he's the one responsible for the bombings—"

"—_and then_ Mycroft's sending Moriarty messages on his bank account—"

"—So he knows what Moran's up to and is trying to stop him—"

"—_Or_ he's trying to _help _him."

Lestrade and John paused in their 'deductions'.

They stood on the street outside the businesswoman's office building.

They didn't _want_ to mistrust Mycroft…but there were too many _questions,_ too many _coincidences_ regarding Sherlock and Moriarty for them to just _ignore_ the facts.

And the fact was that Mycroft Holmes was _avoiding _them.

He hadn't answered their many calls and he wasn't at the Diogenes Club the many times they'd looked for him there.

"Either way," Lestrade reasoned, "Mycroft knows something about this and he obviously doesn't wanna tell us."

"We can't worry about him right now." John decided, "Moriarty is more dangerous and so finding him has to be our priority. But if that leads us back to Mycroft…_then_ we can deal with _him,_ too."

"Well, since we can't get to Mycroft and we can't trust anybody at the Yard, either, we need to go to someone _else_ for information." Lestrade suggested.

"Where?" John inquired, "Molly Hooper?"

"No." Lestrade answered, "We need to see the people that employed your _'friend'_, Sebastian Moran."

John nodded.

"Guess we're going back to the third bombing site, then." He accepted.

Sherlock watched John and Lestrade start down the sidewalk, back towards Lestrade's car.

Once they were a safe distance away, he followed after them.

Anthea watched Sherlock tug the hood of the sweatshirt tighter, making sure it was covering enough of his face, before starting down the sidewalk after John and Lestrade.

Once he was a safe distance away, she followed after him.

* * *

Jim had put more food in the fridge.

And when he opened the double-doors, the dead deer was gone.

Molly had reluctantly followed him downstairs to the basement (carefully keeping her mind in the present and not having flashbacks to the evening before).

The generator was on again and so all the lights were working in the (all but) empty mansion.

The food was convenience-store bags of crips, sodas, trail mix (his idea of a joke), _deer _jerky (another joke) packaged cakes and candy.

The type of bland, cheap staples he knew Molly used to live on.

She never used to have any _flavor_ in her life—before him.

And as much as Jim hated this kind of food, even he knew that sometimes it felt good to return to what was comfortable and familiar.

_Boring…_

…but _good. _

(Besides, there wasn't much of a _selection_ at the tiny gas station store about forty miles down the road.)

Jim had set out all the food on the metal table.

Where else _could _he have put it?

There were no chairs in the room and so he jumped up onto the table beside the 'meal', patting the surface next to him as an invitation for Molly to do the same.

It was rectangle.

Molly sat on the short edge and Jim sat on the long edge towards the corner.

Their shoulders touched and their fingers brushed but it wasn't the same.

_Nothing _was the same.

(But when was it ever? Life _is_ change.)

Jim was closer to the food and so he handed Molly the plastic-wrapped packages he thought she'd like.

But as perceptive and intuitive as he was, he wasn't always as right about her as he assumed he was.

She just never corrected him.

There was no conversation; just the whir of the generator, now a white noise.

They were used to it.

It was constant, loud and _ignored_—but still there.

(Kind of like certain feelings.)

And so it was _quiet._

Jim didn't _like_ quiet.

"Do you mind if I—?"

(He would _at least_ be polite about it, _considering.)_

"No. Go ahead."

(She would _not _be sensitive about it, _despite.) _

Jim hopped off the metal table, strolled over to the wooden one and switched on the radio, then returning to where he sat next to Molly.

It was news instead of music, this time, because both of them were in muted, tired moods that asked for a steady drone of words rather than the instability of a melody.

But it came as a confusing shock to _both_ Jim and Molly that Sebastian Moran had been arrested for the explosions back in London.

"But he didn't do it." Molly said, "He thought _you_ did it."

"It was probably _Sherlock_ who did it, trying to get James's attention." Jim figured, "And it was probably _Mycroft _who gave the order—which means that_ he_ has our 'friend' the sniper."

"So it's a trap for your brother, then?" Molly guessed, "He tries to get Moran out of jail and then gets caught himself?"

"My brother isn't _that_ stupid." Jim dismissed, with a laugh, "He has no reason to bursting in to 'save the day'_—especially_ when he knows it's a set up. No, once James hears about this, he'll be gone. Dissapeared. _Like magic." _

"Oh." Molly accepted, "…well at least we won't have to worry about Moran chasing us now that he's in custody."

"Well, I worry about him anyway, the poor little prisoner-of-war." Jim shrugged, and then smiled for the first time that day "…_we should go rescue him."_

* * *

_Sherlock! _

_I'm alive. _

_You're alive. _

_Let's have dinner._

…_or, at least, a tie-breaker round or something. _

_My place or yours? _

—_Jim_

* * *

Police-tape still quarantined the building that housed the London office of the military and security contracting company and the street surrounding.

City workers cleaned the rubble and broken glass from the pavement as reporters filmed and took pictures while being futilely fended off by police officers.

Amongst all this confusion, John and Lestrade were able to walk into the building as if they belonged there and take the elevator up to the top floor.

When the double-doors opened another businesswoman greeted them with a polite but suspicious _"how may I help you?"._

Fed up with his wife (and _Molly,_ too, as of late) Lestrade decided he liked redheads now when he saw this woman in her pretty but professional gray pantsuit.

John definitely agreed.

They both smiled, hurrying towards her and to speak first.

"Hello, I'm John—"

"And_ I'm_ Greg. Nice to meet you."

The both extended hands and the woman didn't know whose to shake first and so she just said "I'm Samantha."

If they weren't going to give their last names, she certainly wasn't going to give hers (especially considering the news this morning).

"How may I help you?" she said again, this time more sternly.

"We're reporters." John lied, "We'd like to speak with the man charge of this company regarding the bombing that occurred here."

"Please." Lestrade quickly added, and then "Thank you."

" 'The _man_ in charge', huh?" Samantha repeated, raising an eyebrow, "Alright, then. I'll take you to him. Right this way."

Lestrade and John followed Samantha past the front desk of the oppressively gray waiting-room, past the glass and metal walls and doors, all the way down the hall to the one office that_ wasn't_ transparent.

Its door was already open, though, and inside was a glass desk, a big glass window overlooking the gray city and a man in a dark gray suit (presumably 'the man in charge').

He looked up from his laptop when he saw the three enter.

"Visitors?" he questioned, standing up and then walking past the desk over to the two new people and one familiar one.

"Reporters, Mr. Porlock." Samantha stated, rolling her eyes.

"I see…" Porlock said, examining John and Lestrade with suspicion, "Well we're not answering any questions at the moment. I don't know why she let you in."

His eyes turned from the men over to his employee who he also examined with suspicion.

Samantha shrugged.

"We just want to know about Sebastian Moran." John stated.

"So does everybody else." Porlock dismissed, "And I'll tell you what my _secretary_ told them. This company doesn't condone Moran's behavior and he didn't do it on our orders. He went rogue. We didn't know anything about what he was doing beforehand and we don't know anything more now."

"Well who did you hire him out to?" Lestrade asked, "We heard he was working with James Moriarty.

Which one?

Luckily both Samantha and her employer's faces were trained not to show (and so _tell)_ anything (confusion, surprise, the fact that there were two James Moriartys).

"We can't discuss our clients—" Samantha started.

"And we don't know anything about that." Porlock finished, "Now you two have a nice day, Sam will show you out."

Before Lestrade or John could say anything, Samantha was already ushering out of the office and down the hall with another _"right this way". _

When she had politely directed (pushed) them into the elevator and sent them back downstairs and out of the building Samantha returned to her employer's office.

"Your _'secretary'?"_ she repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Why did you let them in?" Porlock asked, not looking up from his laptop "I told you no media and no police."

"But they're_ not_ media or police." Samantha informed, "They're John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, disgraced friends of the disgraced and deceased Sherlock Holmes."

"So?" Porlock shrugged.

"So they're obviously investigating Moriarty." Samantha explained, "Who knows what they'll find out. We have to put a _stop_ to it."

Porlock shook his head chuckling.

"You always want to kill your problems instead of solving them, Sam." he noted, "But why make enemies, when we can make _friends?"_

"What are you suggesting we do, then, sir?" Samantha inquired.

"Have them followed, for now, make sure they don't figure anything out…" her employer ordered, "And when this Holmes and Moriarty situation is finally over…_hire them."_

* * *

Sherlock stopped, turning around to face Anthea.

His hood hadn't fooled her and her sunglasses hadn't fooled him.

But they both blended it in with the crowded and chaotic street outside the military firm's London office.

"What are you doing here?" He asked.

"I could ask you the same question." She returned.

Anthea removed her sunglasses with the hand that didn't hold her smartphone, stowing them in her purse (where she kept her gun right next to her lipstick).

Sherlock pulled the hood of the sweatshirt from his head.

Anthea giggled.

_No wonder_ Sherlock had been covering his now shorter hair, it looked so…_funny _as a redhead.

"Mycroft _made _me dye it." Sherlock grumbled.

His quick glance away betrayed his embarrassment before he corrected it and glared right into Anthea's eyes.

"You need to do more of what Mr. Holmes tells you to, Mr. Holmes." Anthea suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm not Mycroft's employee." He reminded, "I have better things to do than his bidding."

"But you know you can't be following Doctor Watson and DI Lestrade." Anthea countered, "If I recognized you, so will they."

"They won't see me." Sherlock dismissed "And if they _do,_ they'll just have seen a ghost. Now, they may not be _geniuses_ but they know better to believe in _ghosts._ And so they _won't_ see me."

"Still, there_ is_ work to be done." Anthea countered.

"I know." Sherlock acknowledged, "That's why I'm searching for Jim Moriarty's phone. So I can make that work easier."

It was a lie.

Sherlock wasn't sure if Anthea believed.

_Anthea _wasn't sure if she believed it.

"By following them?" she asked, "And avoiding our people?"

"I'm not requiredto report all my activities to my brother." Sherlock replied, "And following John and Lestrade was just for _'fun'._ I _do_ still try to have fun sometimes, despite being 'dead'—even if Mycroft doesn't _want_ me to. _Especially _if Mycroft doesn't want me to."

"He's _trying_ to keep you _safe."_ Anthea told him.

Sherlock laughed, dry and bitter, shaking his head.

"If I don't follow John…" he reasoned, "…_you_ won't be able to follow _me._ And _that _could be a _problem_ for you. I know how Mycroft likes to be able to find me_." _

"But some things are more important than that." Anthea acquiesced.

And Sherlock allowed himself to smile, _just a little. _

Yes, some things _were _more important.

_Like: _

John's safety.

Lestrade's safety.

…and finding Jim Moriarty.

John and Lestrade suspected that he might be alive and now (thanks to the two text messages he'd received) Sherlock was inclined to agreed with them.

But Sherlock knew better than to try to search the world for his whereabouts.

Apparently, all you had to do to find _Jim Moriarty _was find _Molly Hooper._

Sherlock nodded to Anthea a curt goodbye and continued down the sidewalk away from her, wandering until he was sure that he was no longer being followed, and then starting towards Molly Hooper's flat.

* * *

Jim packed the guns and knives into the trunk of the car, slamming the door shut when he was finished and leaning against it to watch Molly as she laid out the cans of cat food.

"Don't eat it all at once." She told Toby, "We'll be back soon, I promise."

The cat stared up at her with confused but loving wide eyes.

Molly was bent down as close to his level as possible, but she was still taller than him.

He mewed and she pat him on the head, accepting the noise as understanding.

The she stood and turned to face Jim.

They were outside, in the overgrown lawn of the manor that was once again being abandoned.

The cat-food cans were on the stone steps and the front door was open.

That way Toby would know that he could go in and out of the house as he pleased.

Until Molly and Jim came back to get him.

_If _Molly and Jim came back to get him.

"So many guns…" Jim commented, arms actually tired from carrying them up out of the basement all the way to the car (Molly would have to drive this time), "I don't even think James knows how to use a gun. Why didn't he just get rid of them?"

"_I_ don't know how to use a gun either." Molly informed, "You said we weren't actually going to be_ using_ the weapons."

"We're not." Jim confirmed, "But we have to look like we planned to."

"So they take us seriously when they capture us?" Molly asked.

"Yes." Jim answered, "…which reminds me, why are you socomfortable and willing for us to be _arrested?"_

"Well, it's all part of the plan, right?" Molly shrugged, trying to sound cheerful yet nonchalant.

"You _want_ me in captured, _don't you?"_ Jim suspected, with a smirk, "Even if that means _you _are, too. You want me in custody so that I won't be able to go after _Sherlock."_

"Yes." Molly affirmed.

Jim chuckled.

"Always trying to keep us apart…" he sighed, "…but what makes you think that Sherlock doesn't _want_ to see_ me_ as much as_ I_ want to see _him." _

"Because he's _smarter_ than you." Molly stated, "And because he knows when to _stop."_

"Well, it's lucky that people like us _don't,_ then." Jim smiled, "Or else nothing would ever happen in this boring world."

Molly smiled too.

Because she was supposed to smile.

Jim had used that _word_ again.

'_us'. _

As if she and he were _connected._

But they _weren't._

They _couldn't_ be.

…as long as _Sherlock Holmes_ was between them.

"Coming?" Jim called.

He was already around the trunk, opening the passenger side door of the car.

This, of course, meant he wasn't going anywhere without Molly since he wanted _her_ to drive (his arms must have been tired from lifting all the guns).

Molly nodded and started towards the car, towards _him. _

She and Jim were_ nothing_ as long as_ Sherlock_ was _something. _

As long as he was who they dreamed about when sleeping, who they thought about when they first woke up in the morning, who they wanted (to protect or to destroy).

There was no such thing as _'us'._

No one _word_ to describe them.

Just_ Molly_ and _Jim. _

(And _Sherlock,_ because there was _always _Sherlock.)

Still, when Jim called, Molly came.

And where Jim went, Molly followed.

* * *

'_Jim'? _

_Still alive, then? _

_And also thanks in part to our dear friend Molly, I presume. _

_You want a rematch? You try to kill me, I try to stop you, that sort of thing? _

_No thanks. _

_That game has gotten old. _

_War is hell and hell is boring. _

_I suggest another arrangement. _

_But I won't waste my time looking for you. _

_If you want to talk, you come to me. _

—_Sherlock_

* * *

**ATTENTION EVERYONE!**

**You need to search this _now _(…well, after you _review,_ of course)_:_ **

**IOU Explanation – 53-8-92 – Grimm's Fairy Tales Cipher**

**(Google it and it'll be the first link.)**

**This is just too amazing, brilliant, genius (and all the other adjectives John would use)! **

**You have to see this! **

**You don't understand how stupid I feel and despite that I am still so amazed. **

**While I was busy being an idiot (the kind of idiot who thinks she's smart when she's not) reading Wikipedia articles and trying to figure out if you could make a bomb out of Uranium, Oxygen and Iodine, doing ridiculous arithmetic that added up to _nothing,_ and worrying about Greek letters… **

…**somebody _actually figured out_ what that the whole 'IOU' thing was about. **

**That made my day and ruined it at the same time lol. **

**I really hate it when people are smarter than me and I hate feeling stupid but this person just _HAS _to be right about it. **

**I'll_ die_ if she's not. **

**You need to read what she wrote. I'm still in awe. **

**Oh, and please review, too! **


	11. Mutual Enemies

**Hi! **

**Thank you to all readers and reviewers! The author thanks you for your continued support: **

**FlyingPigMonkey_—sorry I missed you for the Chapter 9 list_**

**Logical Fallacy—_I know. I feel awful too._ **

**TheSmilingCat**

**Toby—_I'll just call you that from now on for short. I'm a democrat and so you can understand that I'm lazy. lol._**

**lesser mortal**

**Shenanigan (2X)_—You liked that line? Thanks! I liked your word 'yowza'. _**

**GoldenVine (2X)_—god, I hate it when computers randomly shut off!...except when it means I get two reviews instead of one. _**

**My Beautiful Ending—_Ikr. I am still recovering from shock._**

**Kristina—_the contact info you gave me got cut off since the site doesn't allow links. Go back and check the reviews for The Mouse and the Spider I left you a way to contact me. I wanna talk to you to!_**

**I know I'm not supposed to be replying to reviews in-chapter (it's actually against the site's rules, lol) but once I started I can't really stop, now can I? **

**It would seem a bit rude...**

**(And don't think I'm being rude to lesser mortal and TheSmilingCat either, I just talk to them on PM.) **

**And for everyone: I'm bored and lonely (lol) so feel free to email me anytime (if you want to lol), so what if anyone knows my name. I'm a big girl now. **

**No males read anyway and so I'm not really worried lol. **

**(Not that I'm being sexist or anything lol it's just that any dangerous females would probably chose a different genre of fanficiton to read.)**

* * *

Mycroft's secret prison was within driving distance of James's secret house.

How convenient.

In the first location, Mycroft Holmes and his new 'best friend' Sebastian Moran had spent the morning conversing while waiting for James Moriarty to visit.

Also in the first location, Sebastian Moran and his new 'worst enemy' Mycroft Holmes had spent the morning _arguing_ while waiting for James Moriarty to be captured.

Except when he _did_ visit, thereby getting captured, 'he' was the_ wrong_ James Moriarty.

The gray-uniformed men escorted the _not_ struggling Jim Moriarty (and Molly Hooper) into the office where Mycroft looked up and smiled, and Moran turned his head and rolled his eyes.

"Surprise, surprise, I'm alive!" Jim greeted, grinning until he saw Mycroft's bored expression, "…you don't look very surprised, Mr. Holmes."

"That's because Mr. Moran already informed me of that _regrettable_ fact." He stated, gesturing to Moran.

"Now that's not very nice, 'outing' me like that!" Jim gasped, "How could you do such a thing _'Mr. Moran'?" _

"I was recommending that 'Mr. Holmes' arrest the one _actually responsible_ for the bombings." Moran explained, "Instead of _me." _

"You _still _believe I'm guilty?" Jim laughed, "It wasn't me! I'm an innocent man—well, of _that,_ anyway…"

"Why turn yourself in, then?" Mycroft asked.

"Because I _missed _you." Jim answered, coyly, "…and your brother—where _is _Sherlock, anyway? Can he come out and play?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I see, Miss Hooper, that you incapable of keeping a secret." He chastised, shaking his head sadly, "Which is quite a shame because my brother so_ trusted_ you…"

Molly stared down at the floor, ashamedly.

(Dark red carpeting when all the other rooms were white, metal and concrete.)

"Oh come on, Mikey, don't _torture _the poor girl." Jim groaned, "God knows what I put her through to get that information out of her."

Moran snorted.

"She doesn't look injured to me." he evaluated, examining Molly's lack of visible injuries.

(She looked as if she'd cut her knee while shaving her legs that morning—but that was it.)

"But that's the thing about torture," Jim reminded, in a dark whisper, "The scars are on the inside... Isn't that right, _soldier?" _

To that statement, Moran just shrugged.

"Mr. Holmes, can you please tell Sherlock that I'm sorry?" Molly requested, finally looking up and towards Mycroft, "I never wanted—"

"I'm sure he'd _love_ to tell Sherlock that you're sorry." Jim interrupted, "...Once he's finished apologizing for letting me 'have my way' with his little brother_." _

The room was silent for a moment, everyone glancing around at each other awkwardly.

"Well, then, I could use a cup of tea." Mycroft decided, abruptly, "Would anyone else like anything?"

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but due to the _excited_ look on his face Mycroft quickly added "to _drink,_ that is." to which Jim's face fell.

"…yeah… just some coffee or something." Jim muttered, "I haven't had any all morning and my head's starting to pound."

Mycroft turned to Moran.

"For you, Mr. Moran?" he asked.

"Water." Moran said, dryly, "No ice."

_(Jim _thought it was funny, at least—but then again, Jim thought _everything _was funny).

Mycroft turned to Molly.

"And for you, Miss Hooper?"

"Oh, me? I'm fine—I mean coffee would be nice—but tea is good, too, or water—but anything's good, really—or nothing, if it's too much trouble…"

Molly rambled nervously, but one had to forgive her. This _was _her first time being arrested, after all.

"No trouble at all." Mycroft dismissed, and then looked up from Molly to the men holding her and Jim, telling them "You know what to do."

The gray-uniformed men glanced at eachother (questioning why Mycroft would want to be left alone in a room with three prisoners) then released Jim and Molly from their grasps and exited the office.

"And they call both you Holmes brothers geniuses." Moran muttered_ (also _questioning why Mycroft would want to be left alone in a room with three prisoners).

"_Speaking_ of the other Holmes brother—" Jim began.

"If you turned yourself in so that you could see Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, "then you've come all this way for nothing, Mr. Moriarty."

"I didn't come 'all this way'." Jim corrected, "It's just down the road."

"From where?" Mycroft inquired, surprisedly, "I didn't realize there was anything else in the area."

"Well there isn't much." Jim agreed, "Just a creepy old haunted house by the woods."

"Really?" Mycroft responded, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

(If that were true, then he'd have to reprimand his security team for being so lax in surverying the area surrounding his secret prison.)

"You hid _there?"_ Moran questioned, suspiciously and taken aback, "Why would you hide there when you knew I was looking for you?"

_He_ knew what 'creepy old haunted house' Jim was talking about.

And Jim snickered.

"Because I knew you'd never look for me somewhere you knew I knew you knew about. It's called 'hiding in plain sight'. Always works, too."

Moran shook his head, groaning exasperatedly.

(Sure, Mycroft was a little_ annoying_…but_ Jim_ was…Jim was _Jim._ He was Moran's _definition _of annoying.)

Molly was still counting the 'I knew you knews' in Jim's sentence, trying to decipher its meaning.

She nodded in agreement with Jim once she had.

Mycroft smiled.

"Still, you won't be seeing Sherlock—"Mycroft began.

"We're not here for _Sherlock."_Jim interrupted, "We're here to set the poor caged jailbird free."

"Call me a 'bird' again and you're dead." Moran threatened, glaring at Jim out of the corner of his eye.

"Mr. Moran did not resist arrest." Mycroft stated, "Ever since we have kept him very comfortable and he hasn't complained once. I have no reason to believe that he is unhappy here and would like to leave. So again, Mr. Moriarty, you've come here for nothing."

"Well, in that case, we'll just get our guns and we'll go." Jim decided, "Come on, Molly."

He turned around, starting towards the windowed office door, Molly hurrying confusedly after him.

"You're not going anywhere." Mycroft told them, "... I would be a very impolite host to allow you to walk away before you've had your beverages."

Hand on the doorknob, Jim stopped, letting go of it and then turning back around to face the seated Mycroft and Moran.

Molly did the same, sighing.

This was going to be a long day and it was only ten o'clock...

"Hey, where did you get the guns anyway?" Moran inquired, turning around in his seat to stare down Jim.

"Found 'em." Jim shrugged.

"And now you've gotten them all confiscated, haven't you?"

"…maybe."

Jim grinned toothily in sheepish sham guilt.

Moran almost slapped his forehead.

_Almost. _

But he was trained to keep his composure and so his composure he kept.

"…_oh no!_ They weren't _your_ guns, were they?" Jim asked, feigning shock and worry, "How _could _you have left them _all alone_ and _unprotected _there?"

"Because I didn't think anybody would_ steal _them." Moran grumbled.

And he really hadn't, either.

It had _seemed_ safe to keep his (illegal) stockpile of weapons in the old, abandoned mansion because most people did not know it even existed and the ones that_ did_ also knew that it was less than ten miles away from a _secret government prison. _

But then he should have remembered how _stupid_ (insane (ingenious)) Jim was.

"…Sorry." Molly apologized, "We thought somebody had just left them there or something… we didn't know they were _yours." _

"_You_ didn't know." Jim corrected, chuckling.

"Well, _you _didn't tell me…" Molly murmured.

But she did _not_ roll her eyes.

"No wonder James is having such trouble_."_ Mycroft laughed, crossing his arms smugly, "He can't even keep his own house in order. None of you are on the same page."

"I don't live in the same house as James." Jim literalized the metaphor, "And he and I don't read the same books, anyway."

"I'm just sort of here…" Molly admitted, sighing defeated and nervous.

"_He_ is the cause of all my employer's 'trouble'." Moran declared, pointing at Jim, and then adding, "And most of _yours,_ too, Mr. Holmes. You and my employer should not be enemies."

"I gave him the chance not to be." Mycroft told him, "I asked him—_very nicely_, I might add—to give me the keycode. He refused and chose to flee instead. But he'll be here soon, I'm sure…"

"If all you want is the code, you don't even need my employer." Moran stated, "I'll tell you how to get it."

"You'd betray your _beloved boss_ like that?" Jim laughed, "So much for loyalty."

"I think he'd forgive me if he wasn't captured," Moran dismissed, "and_ you_ were…'taken care of'."

"Well that can certainly be arranged…" Mycroft offered, "Now _where_ can I get the keycode, Mr. Moran?"

"You could've gotten it when you arrested Jim the first time." Moran explained, "The idiot has it on his phone."

"'_Idiot'? Me?" _Jim repeated, offendedly, _"I'm_ not the one who wrote it up on the board for the whole classroom to see."

"'Hiding in plain sight'." Moran returned, "Nobody knew about the code at that time—until _you_ told everybody about it—and even if they did, they wouldn't have believed he'd have kept it out there like that."

"Except for me…" Jim reminded, "And it's not my fault Mycroft's too _senile_ and his employees were too_ stupid_ to think of checking even checking my phone while I was in custody—although they _were a_ bit _distracted _during my arrest."

He remembered how the masses Mycroft's employees had frozen, gazing in awe (stood there awkwardly, staring unsure of how to react) as he had kissed Molly 'goodbye', not noticing as he handed her his phone for safe-keeping (not being allowed to search or apprehend Molly because Mycroft hadn't wanted Sherlock (or anyone) to notice she was gone and figure out what had happened).

"Your phone, please, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft requested, reaching and open hand across the desk towards Jim.

Jim reached into his pockets, searching and then patting his suit before shrugging apologetically.

"I…seem to have forgotten it…" he grimaced, "…Sorry 'bout that."

Mycroft retracted his arm, furrowing his brow in annoyance.

"How convenient." He acquiesced, "I'll have my men search you, just to make sure, when they get back with the tea."

"…_and_ the coffee." Jim reminded, _"and_ the 'water, no ice', and the 'anything's good really—or nothing, if it's too much trouble'..."

"No." Mycroft shook his head, "Just the tea."

And so they all drank tea from teacups when the two gray-uniformed men returned.

(—Except for Moran who refused to drink _anything_ from a teacup.)

The tray was placed on Mycroft's desk, on top of the newspaper by one employee while the other was directed to frisk Jim.

"Don't forget to check for _cavities." _Jim reminded the guard, as he stretched out his arms.

And Moran almost made a snide comment about Jim being used to having 'things' in his 'cavities'.

_Almost. _

But he was trained to keep his jokes to himself and so his jokes to himself he kept.

"Told you so." Jim smirked when the search yielded no cellphone, "I don't have it with me. Although you _could _check Molly, just to make sure, she _did_ have it the last time…"

"I don't have it!" Molly squeaked, setting her teacup down startledly on the saucer she held in her other hand.

"And I supposed neither of you have any idea where it is." Mycroft supposed, resting his chin on his palm and his elbow on the desk with a sigh.

Now even he was starting to get tired of this, and he usually enjoyed interrogations (as long as he was the one doing the interrogating, of course).

"Actually, I do." Jim stated, reaching forwards to grab a cup from the tray, "It's back at the house where I left it."

"Then I'll send my men to get it—" Mycroft began.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Moran interrupted, "Sending somebody there is just what he_ wants_ you to do. He probably rigged it to blow up or something if anyone goes in there."

"I would have but you didn't leave me any bombs." Jim denied, "Just guns and knives."

"Knives weren't mine." Moran replied, "They were there when I got there and I don't even know what_ you_ brought there."

"Jim didn't bring any weapons, really, he didn't." Molly informed, "And he didn't set any traps in the house."

"You can't trust what they say." Moran warned, turning to Mycroft.

"And why are you so eager to help Mr. Holmes today?" Jim asked sipping the tea.

"Because, out of the two of you, I like him better." Moran answered, matter-of-factly.

"And here I thought we had something _special…"_ Jim sighed, clinking teacup against saucer, "…and yet I find you and Mycroft making conversation behind my back!"

"You know it's nothing personal, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft dismissed with a wave of his hand, "It's just business."

"Well, I don't think James'll be happy with either of you once he gets here." Jim reasoned, "You _did _say he was coming, didn't you, Mr. Holmes? You're people are out there _apprehending_ him—when do you think he'll actually _get_ here?"

"All in good time, Mr. Moriarty, all in good time…" Mycroft troped.

"Define _'good_ time' for me, if you will." Jim requested, "Because it could mean different amounts for different people, for example—"

"This is why nothing ever gets done." Moran snapped, "You all talk too much."

"_Well, excuse me—"_

"_No._ You want the code, Mr. Holmes? Get the phone. You want the phone? Go get it."

"And how do you recommended I do that, Mr. Moran, when you've warned me not to trust a word Mr. Moriarty has said?"

Moran smiled (...well, he moved the corners of his mouth slightly upwards in what was probably supposed to be a smile.)

"_Easy."_ He said, "Send the woman. She knows where the house is, she can find the phone, but she won't hurt your employees. And if there _is _some kind of trap at the house, _well…"_

"Brilliant plan, Mr. Moran." Mycroft approved, "We'll send Miss Hooper to retrieve Mr. Moriarty's phone. We all know that he'd_ never_ send _her_ into danger, _would he?" _

"Never." Jim affirmed, with a smile, then bowing his head to kiss the hair on Molly's head.

Molly took a breath to steady her (relatively) calm exterior.

_As far as she knew_ Jim hadn't done anything to the manor…_but that was only as far as she knew_ and she knew that she often didn't know very far.

"Then I'm sure we won't have any problems." Mycroft predicted cheerfully.

* * *

Half an hour later, of course, they heard the drumbeat of a helicopter above them, shaking the entire building (and knocking Moran's untouched tea to the ground).

Mycroft had already deduced what had happened by the time they heard the marching bootsteps and the 'knock' at the door.

The 'knock' at the door that kicked it open.

Nine men in gray uniforms filed into the office, followed by a (half frightened, half embarrassed) Molly (holding a confused Toby and a smartphone) and then James.

Suddenly the room was uncomfortably crowded.

Mycroft stood up.

"Come to deliver your keycode to me in person?" he hoped.

"No." James answered, "I've come to ask—_very nicely,_ I might add—for you to release my employee and remove from the news any fictions that might imply I'm a terrorist."

The uniformed men turned their guns towards Mycroft who turned his gaze towards them.

"And how much did he pay you to betray your country—and more importantly, your company?" Mycroft questioned them.

The men said nothing, staring straight ahead at the wall and so Mycroft continued staring at them questioningly.

"He orders them not to speak." Moran explained, from his chair, "Wastes too much time."

"Oh." Mycroft accepted, nodding down at Moran.

"You wasted too much time talking and now you missed your chance at getting the code." Moran continued, rising from the seat, "Have a nice afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

He started towards the office door.

"Are they dead?" Mycroft asked, looking back to James, "My men from the firm? Did yours kill them?"

"No, they just knocked them unconscious." James told him, "And they won't kill _you,_ either, Mr. Holmes, if you stop hunting me."

"Give me the keycode and I will." Mycroft stated.

"You're not in the position to negotiate that—"James began.

"Then stop negotiating!" Moran interrupted, quite loudly, then adding more evenly "...Sir. Let's leave before anyone _else _unexpected shows up."

"James wasn't _'unexpected'."_ Jim corrected, "We all knew he'd be coming. I even texted him directions to get here so he could come save us."

"You tried to set him up." Moran countered, _"Again."_

"_No…"_ Jim explained, smugly, "I knew that if Mycroft's shadows were searching the globe, playing 'Where's Wally' then the last place they'd think to look was _here_ and so nobody would_ be_ here to stop us when we all escape."

"There is no 'we all'." Moran countered, "My employer is done with you. You're the British government's problem now."

James turned to Molly.

"Miss Hooper, you told me that if I helped you help my brother survive, then you would be able to control him." he reminded, "Next thing I hear, three buildings I have connections to have blown up."

"For the last time, that wasn't me!" Jim exclaimed, "And I think Molly's done an excellent job controlling me, if I say so myself. She's even gotten me to promise not to kill anybody which is more than you were ever able to do, _James." _

Molly smiled, blushing.

(It was awkward, yes, and embarrassing, yes…but she couldn't say that she wasn't just a _little_ proud.)

"Then there shouldn't be a problem with him leaving you here." Moran accepted, "If she's been doing her job properly."

"I'm not letting Jim out of my sight again." James decided, "He's too dangerous and he knows too much to be left in custody here. He's coming with us and if he doesn't behave himself then you can kill him."

Jim smiled knowing that James's threat was about as empty as the vacuum of space.

"Okay." Moran acquiesced, "Now let's just go."

For the second time, he started hurriedly towards the door.

He knew that if Jim and James continued talking, they'd never stop—especially with Mycroft in the room who apparently enjoyed talking as much as they did.

"Now wait just a minute—" Mycroft tried.

"_No."_ Moran refused, pointing a warning finger at him and then at Jim as soon as he opened his mouth, he then turned to James, "We have to leave now, sir."

Moran went first, followed by James, Jim, Molly (Toby in cat-carrier), and the nine men in gray uniforms.

* * *

They made it through the doorway (having to step over the door that had been knocked down and the spilled tea) and down the first concrete off-white hall before they turned the corner.

Nine more gray-suited men and one black-suitskirted woman waited for them, holding nine black guns and one black smartphone.

"No one's going anywhere." Anthea informed them as she texted Mycroft.

His phone buzzed loudly and everyone turned to see him standing behind the 'escaping' prisoners and their 'rescuers', a content and slightly amused look on his face.

Moran sighed.

This was _exactly _what he'd been trying to _avoid. _

"Now," Mycroft said, "Give me the phone, Miss Hooper."

He extended an open hand.

And Molly was ready to just give him Jim's phone and be done with this entire ridiculous situation…

…but then James's men had to go and point their guns towards Mycroft's men.

"Seems we're at a stalemate here." James 'deduced'.

"And how do you suppose we remedy that?" Mycroft inquired.

Moran groaned.

Obviously they would 'remedy' the 'stalemate' by talking everyone in the building to death.

"We make a deal." James offered, "You can have Jim's phone and all the information on it but in return you can't pursue me, my employees, my brother and his girlfriend ever again. You have to leave us all completely alone."

"Agreed." Mycroft agreed, "May I have the phone now?"

James nodded but Molly waited until Jim nodded to deliver the phone to Mycroft.

_Good. _

Now this was finally finished—except it _wasn't._

"As soon as I verify that the keycode is on here, I will allow you all to leave." Mycroft stated.

"That's not what we agreed on." James countered, "You have what you need, you have no reason—or_ method_ to keep us here."

He gestured in reminder to his nine employees with guns.

"And _you_ have no method to leave." Mycroft returned, "Unless, of course, you want shootout that would inevitably end in all ours deaths."

"But you don't want that either, Mr. Holmes, do you?" James retorted, "So why threaten it?"

"Because I work for the government, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft explained, "And I know how to play war."

"Did somebody say my name?" Jim asked, inserting himself into the conversation now that it was getting a little more interesting.

"Wrong 'Mr. Moriarty'." Mycroft told Jim.

"Stay out of this." James warned Jim.

"Just check the phone and get this over with." Moran requested.

Mycroft glanced down at Jim's phone, tapping at it with his thumb.

"…It appears there is a password." He announced, looking up.

"Tell him the password!" Moran barked at Jim immediately.

"Can't he figure it out?" Jim shrugged, "It's not hard. It's just five letters…"

"Stop wasting time, Jim." Moran groaned.

Mycroft tried to give Jim his phone but he shook his head and folded his arms like a pouting child.

"No." Jim refused, "I want somebody to solve my puzzle."

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Anthea!" he called.

And she strode over, putting her own smartphone into her jacket pocket so she could take Jim's.

"Shouldn't be difficult…" she muttered, already scanning the device.

"How about he just_ tells_ you the password," Moran suggested, _trying_ (and failing) to sound less annoyed than he was, "and we all can go home."

"Brilliant plan, Mr. Moran." Mycroft commented (again), "If Jim Moriarty wants to waste my time he knows he can do it in a dark room with a few of my best men."

"Are you trying to threaten me or _arouse_ me, Mr. Holmes?"

"What I _meant_ was that they could torture the information out of you—"

"Yeah, because that worked _so well_ the first time—"

"Enough!" Moran roared, shout echoing through the hallway as he punched the concrete wall in frustration and fury.

…_all in his mind,_ of course.

_In body,_ Moran stayed composed and silent, clenching fists the only proof of his anger.

He watched Jim and Mycroft bicker until James finally interjected.

"Jim, just tell the nice lady the password, _please." _

"…oh alright." Jim sighed, then turning to Anthea, "c-o-c-k-b."

"c-o-c-k-b?" Anthea repeated, to which Jim nodded.

She typed the letters into his phone but when nobody laughed Jim was disappointed.

"Get it?" he asked, , "c-o-c-k-b? 'cock-buh' as in 'I am _cock_blocked'? Instead of 'I am Sherlocked'? Like Irene Adler's phone?"

He glanced around at everyone's confused faces expectantly.

Some stared at the floor, others at the ceiling, while others just held their heads in their hands, shaking them sadly.

"Well I thought it was funny…" Jim grumbled down to the concrete floor he was now kicking at.

"It's unlocked." Anthea declared, looking up and towards Mycroft.

"Good." Mycroft approved.

"Are we done here now?" Moran asked, as politely as possible (and it was not possible for him to be very 'polite' in this particular moment).

"Once we see the code." Mycroft answered.

Anthea returned to clicking through the cellphone.

Moran returned to clenching his fist and teeth.

"Found it." Anthea said, looking up once more, "It's the only thing with numbers long enough to be a code of that capability. To use this we'd need as much power as an entire power-station and we can't use a wireless network for this, we'll have to use broadband_. A lot_ of broadband."

She walked over to Mycroft, showing him the screen of the phone.

"It can all be arranged." Mycroft stated, then turning to James, "Is this it?"

Anthea held up the phone towards James, who nodded.

"Yes." he confirmed, "…I only created it anyway so I could monitor my younger brother. I never wanted money or power, like you think. I actually wanted to _protect_ people from him."

"And you've done a _fine _job of that, now haven't you?" Jim congratulated slapping James on the back, "How many people have I killed again? I've lost count…"

"It's under one hundred." James recalled, edging away from him, "Eighty-nine, I believe…unless there have been _more_ since your 'death'."

"There _haven't."_ Molly stated, quickly.

"I can't believe you kept count…" Jim laughed, "I didn't even think it was that many."

"The number's not just ones you've killed personally." James explained, "It also includes the ones you've paid to have killed, arranged to have killed and those killed as a result of any of your actions. I'm not sure if you're aware of all of those but there were eighteen people—"

"I don't know and I don't care." Jim shrugged.

Molly, of course, _did_ care.

"That's awful!" she exclaimed, before she could stop herself, quickly bringing her hand to her mouth to muffle the gasp.

"It really _is,_ isn't it.._.?"_ Jim sympathized, "Now I can't even make it an _even ninety!_—because of _you." _

He glared at her in absolute disgust and so she glanced away. But when she dared look back he was just smiling at her as if nothing was wrong.

"Ah, the classic criminal changing his ways for a good woman." Mycroft commented, "How romantic."

"I know right, it should be a _movie _or something." Jim agreed, "In fact it probably already is. I know you had to have had the hotel room bugged. Bet you got some pretty good footage there—"

"What?" Molly cried.

"Oh. Mycroft made a sextape of us…or _several."_ Jim told her, "I thought you knew."

"He—I—you—"Molly stammered, face a searing red.

"It was not a 'sextape'." Mycroft dismissed, "It was necessary surveillance footage."

"Why didn't you _do _something about this, why didn't you _tell_ me?" Molly demanded to Jim, then turning to Mycroft (although being unable to look him in the eyes), "Please delete whatever you have of me!"

"He's probably enjoying it too much to do that." Jim chuckled.

"I didn't watch it _myself." _Mycroft clarified, "I have_ people_ for that."

"Ooh, was it _you?" _Jim inquired excitedly, turning to Anthea, "What'd you think?"

Anthea didn't bother looking up from the keycode on Jim's phone.

"I think we've heard more than enough." James interjected, "Now that Mr. Holmes has the code, there's no purpose in us being here any longer."

"So are we free to go now or what?" Moran added.

"Yes, you may leave." Mycroft allowed, "My employees and I will escort you out."

* * *

In a perfect world Mycroft and his people would have had the code, and James and his people would have disappeared off into the sunset (even though it was only mid afternoon) never to be bothered again.

There would be no hunger, no thirst, no poverty and no war.

Also, Jim would never have killed eighty-nine people (either he would have killed zero and been an upstanding citizen—_or_ he would have killed an even ninety).

But this was _not_ a perfect world.

And so when the twenty-four people (eighteen in gray suits, and then rest with names, faces and _importance) _exited the secret prison in the middle of the nowhere on the cleanly-mowed field there was someone waiting for them.

And Moran _knew _this would happen.

He knew, knew, knew,_ knew_ this would happen and this was _exactly_ what he had been trying to _avoid._

Because, being a 'company man' himself, Moran knew that no employee betrayed the private-military firm.

There was no amount of money, no threat of death, no nothing that would make any employee turn on their employer.

Their_ true_ employer.

Porlock stood smiling, leaning against his armored-vehicle (which had a familiar auburn-haired woman sitting inside in the driver's seat), waiting for the twenty-four people _(his_ employees and then the_ rest_) arrive.

"Finally cracked the code, I see." He started, starting towards them, "It's about time. I've been waiting."

"Mr. Porlock?" Mycroft and James both said, both very confused.

Jim admired the man's style.

(Gray suit. _Nice._ …but the bald head _had_ to go. It was reflecting the sun for god's sake!)

"Hello, Sebastian." Porlock greeted, passing James and Mycroft to address Moran.

"…Mr. Porlock…" Moran acknowledged, guardedly.

Porlock sighed.

"When I had you surrender yourself to authorities, I had no idea that Mr. Holmes here would disgrace your name like that all over the news." He lamented, "But because I can't have that kind of bad publicity tarnishing my company, I regrettably do have to fire you. I'm sorry."

_"I'm_ not." Moran declared, "And you're an arrogant person coming here yourself to do this."

"Well, if I'm going to do this, I might as well do it in person—"Porlock reasoned.

"Do _what?" _Jim interrupted, "Tell me what's going on, 'Sebastian', because I know your 'boss' didn't come all the way down here just to fire you."

"He wants the code." Moran informed.

"You told him about it?" James accused, taken aback.

"No, your _brother_ did." Moran answered, "Porlock has criminal contacts, when Jim sent out his mass text one of Porlock's guys must have got it. Then when I was arrested he knew Mr. Holmes would be coming for you next. And since he's one of the people who _actually_ know who your brother is, now he's here to get the code Jim advertized."

"Well, Mr. Porlock," Mycroft began, "You've come all this way for nothing, then. I'm not giving you the keycode."

"Really?" Porlock questioned, raising an eyebrow, "Because I am asking—very nicely, I might add."

Suddenly all eighteen gray-suited men lifted their guns and aimed them towards Mycroft and James.

They _were_ all on the same side, after all.

_Porlock's_ side.

"I offered you more money than you can ever make at that firm." James reminded the nine men formerly in his employ, "And you all accepted."

"They were ordered to accept." Porlock corrected, "Just like they were ordered to bring you to Mr. Holmes if you didn't offer. Whichever got you back to England faster."

"Speaking of England…" Mycroft said, "…you realize you are betraying your country by doing this, _Mr._ Porlock."

Porlock snorted, shaking his head.

"You mean the same way _you're _betraying your country by conducting secret operations behind not only the people's backs but your employers' backs as well?" he compared, "Because if you tell the government about this, I'll tell them about how you manipulated the media, how agreed to set the _mass murderer_ Jim Moriarty free in exchange for a _phone_…and how you assisted your brother Sherlock Holmes in his _'suicide'_."

Mycroft took a breath.

"…so you want the keycode. _Why?"_ he inquired.

"I think you know why." Porlock chuckled.

"The company you represent is multi-national with over a million employees, all military-trained." Jim listed, already buzzing with excitment, "With the code you could shutdown any electronic device with internet-access. While everyone was confused and isolated, your army could attack! You and your counterparts at the head of branches in the other countries would take over the world—or _at least_ start World War Three…"

James, Moran, Mycroft, Anthea and Molly were all less excited about that prospect.

"I like how you think." Porlock smiled at Jim. "Still, I should have my men shoot you where you stand for everything you've done…But I won't because I don't want to make an enemy out of your brother," he turned to James and then to Mycroft, "or of you, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, you know it's far too late for that, Mr. Porlock." Mycroft dismissed, "And the only reason you're not killing _me_ is because you don't want to lose your government contracts."

"And _you_ don't want to lose _your_ employment in the government _either."_ Porlock warned, "And that's why you won't kill _me." _

"And why aren't you going to kill_ me?"_ James inquired.

"I hear you have friends in North Korea, Mr. Moriarty." Porlock explained, "And my company's been thinking of opening an office there…"

"You won't get away with this." Moran spat.

"I already have." Porlock laughed, "…now who has the phone that the keycode is so conveniently stored on?"

He glanced around at the people that weren't his employees, while his employees continued to train their guns on them.

Anthea looked to Mycroft who nodded regretfully.

She handed Jim's phone to Porlock who accepted it.

"Thank you, miss." He thanked, "And thank _you_, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Moriarty."

"Your welcome." Jim grinned.

Mycroft, James, Moran, Anthea and even Molly glared at him to which he shrugged in innocence.

He _was _just trying to be _polite,_ after all…

Porlock turned and went back towards his armored-vehicle, large enough to fit the eighteen employees that marched after him.

They boarded the truck which started up and then drove away, leaving the six people remaining to stare in shock.

And even _Jim _didn't think _that _was funny.

He'd only come to here to bide time until Sherlock finally showed up and the 'ultimate enemies' were reunited once again in the 'afterlife'.

_Maybe there was still hope…_

"There is no chance in hell Porlock'll just let us go like that." Moran declared, "If he didn't kill us and he didn't put guards on us, the only thing left for him to do now is have a plane fly over this location and drop a _bomb _on us. It could already be on its way. We have to get out of here. _Now."_

"I agree." James agreed, "…They left the helicopter behind. I just bought it today, not the firm, so it's probably safe."

"I can fly it." Moran informed (which wasn't _unexpected,_ really. Many soldiers learned how to fly a helicopter in the military. Just not as many learned when they were teenagers because their father could afford one).

"And I know a safehouse we can go to." Mycroft offered, "We can hide there and plan what to do next."

"We're going to have to kill Porlock for this." Moran decided, "And we might have to kill the regional directors in the US, France and Germany, if they're in on this too. Those are the ones he works most closely with."

"We'll figure all that out later when we have more resources available." James accepted.

"Now we have to go." Mycroft added.

"Oh, so we're all working together now?" Jim chuckled.

"Well you know what they say about the 'enemy of my enemy'…" Mycroft troped.

"_My friend."_ Jim smiled, "…now if only Sherlock were here, this would be _perfect." _

Mycroft would have rolled his eyes, but there just wasn't_ time_ for that.

Instead he, Anthea, Moran, James, Jim and Molly (carrying Toby) raced towards the helicopter, minds also racing with shock, fear and disbelief.

_This could not be happening…_

* * *

And it _wasn't._

They'd only been on the helicopter for half an hour when everyone's cellphones buzzed with the same mass text message.

(—Except for Jim's, since he didn't _have _his phone anymore.)

Jim sulked down into his seat next to Molly who was too busy covering her ears against the oppressing sound of rushing wind to check her phone (and Toby, in the cat-carrier, who was mewing in extreme distress).

Jim pulled Molly's phone from her purse to read the text.

_World War Three? _

_No. _

_There are already enough wars and our company is doing just fine. _

_But a code like that could change the game. _

_Give one country an unfair advantage over another. _

_There is already enough of that, too. _

_Any more and someone might win. _

_Now that's bad for business. _

_And so we of our humble company have decided to share this code with the world, even the playing field. _

_We gave it its own website so that any government (and any wealthy corporation or individual, really) can access it and use it for their own purposes._

_We understand that that isn't exactly 'fair'…but it's close enough. _

_You can find the link below. _

_The company thanks you for your continued friendship. _

Mycroft stared down at his phone.

"Nuclear deterrence…" he sighed, shaking his head.

James stared down at his phone.

"Public domain software…" he sighed, shaking his head.

Moran knew better than to use his phone while piloting a helicopter.

Moran also knew better than to think that he and James (and Jim and Molly) would be go free now that James no longer had the keycode to trade with Mycroft.

His former employer may have_ thought_ he had evened 'the playing field', but all he'd done was allow Mycroft Holmes to _win._

* * *

"Sebastian was right, sir." Samantha said as she drove the armored-vehicle along the empty country road.

Next to her sat her employer, Mr. Porlock, and behind them sat the eighteen gray-uniformed men (now chatting amongst themselves, glad that they didn't have to pretend to point guns at eachother anymore and that they were finally allowed to talk again).

"About what?" Porlock asked, leaning back in his seat as he scrolled through Jim's phone.

"You shouldn't have come here yourself and been so…_dramatic."_ Samantha stated, "It wasn't professional and it put you in unnecessary danger."

"I did what I had to." Porlock dismissed, "That's how people like them work. They're power-hungry. If I'd told them what I really wanted to do with the code, they wouldn't have believed me."

"You could have sent someone in your place, though." Samantha countered.

"Nobody else but the people in this car can ever know about this." Porlock declared, "So it _had_ to be me. It _couldn't_ have been _you_. That wouldn't have worked. I don't like it when family fights family. I'd never sent you in against your own brother."

"But I'm not_ really _against Sebastian, now am I?" Samantha reminded, "He played his part perfectly."

"Yeah, he did, didn't he…" Porlock agreed, which a chuckle, "…he just doesn't _know_ it yet."

* * *

**I should have mentioned it last chapter. **

**Samantha 'Sam' is Sebastian Moran's sister. **

**Why? **

**Because John has Harriet 'Harry'. **

**That sort of thing makes sense in my mind. **

**And as for Mr. Porlock there… I think I might have mentioned the name was from 'A Valley of Fear'. **

**According to Wikipedia, Arthur Conan Doyle chose the name because some poet named Samuel Taylor Coleridge was interrupted while writing by some dude from Porlock saying "it is what it is, Sam". **

**Sam. **

**Oh look. There's that name again.**

**Now before I talk myself in circles, I'll just shut up. **

**I want to hear you all talk! **

**What do you have to say? **


	12. Lost in Paradise

**This was going to be one chapter but it got so long and so now it's going to be two. **

**Sorry to Logical Fallacy who misses John, Lestrade and Sherlock. Now they won't be back until the _14th_ chapter.  
**

**To adress FlyingPigMonkey's concern about a 'global military plot twist' I will make it more clear to everyone right now that there will be no world war three in this story. **

**Mycroft and everyone just over-reacted to Porlock taking the code because it's what he would have done with the code. Porlock and his company aren't going to try to take over the world or even try to kill them. It would be bad for business. ****  
**

**Porlock put the code to public domain so that it would be essentially powerless and so the world would stay the same, allowing the company to continue its lucrative business.  
**

**Sorry for any confusion.  
**

**And thanks to everyone who reviewed: **

**GoldenVine**

**TheSmilingCat  
**

**lesser mortal  
**

**Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat  
**

**Logical Fallacy  
**

**Shenanigan  
**

**MissusGages  
**

**FlyingPigMonkey  
**

**TheObessesionist  
**

* * *

The helicopter landed, wings slowing to a stop and noise finally subsiding.

Everyone's ears popped, adjusting to the change in pressure as they unbuckled themselves and exited the flying vehicle onto the paved parking-lot.

Jim was the only one who had managed to fall asleep (he always did sleep better when there was a lot of background noise), waking up when Molly (as gently as possible) removed his head from her lap as she began to get up.

She picked up the cat-carried wherein Toby was strangely quiet now.

Once outside the helicopter, Molly quickly bent to check on the cat.

He seemed to be…_unconscious,_ passed out due to all the stress.

But at least he was alive.

"Is there a veterinarian I can take him to here?" Molly asked as she stood up, looking towards Mycroft and Anthea.

"My employees will take care of it." Mycroft consoled, then turning to Anthea, "She'll arrange something."

Anthea nodded at him and then Molly, afterwards staring down at her smartphone and starting to type.

Molly returned to bending beside her sleeping pet, petting her poor unconscious Toby through the door of the carrier.

"Where are we?" James inquired.

"That, I'm afraid, is classified." Mycroft stated.

"We're on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea." Moran declared, "On the European side."

He based that 'deduction' based on what he'd seen as he'd flown the helicopter and the coordinates Anthea had given him.

"Majorca of the Balearic Islands, actually." Mycroft informed, since if it their location couldn't be a _secret, _it could at least be _correct. _

Jim stumbled off the landed helicopter, glancing around at the people and the area.

Palm trees in the distance, seagulls even, and a pretty sunset with a spectrum of colors from dark indigo to bright orange.

He sucked in a dramatic deep breath of warm, slightly salty air as he stretched after such a long journey strapped into a seat.

"First we all team up and now we've gone off on holiday to the beach together." Jim commented, "What's next? An org—"

"Why don't we just think of this as a _business_ trip." James quickly suggested.

At this point, he and Mycroft were not enemies and he didn't want Jim to ruin that with his inappropriate and often childish sense of humor.

(Of course, if that was what James _didn't _want, it was exactly what Jim was going to do.)

"I just wonder who'll go mad _first,_ stranded here on this island…" Jim mused, "…who'll be 'lord of the flies' and who'll end up _dead." _

"Don't be ridiculous." Mycroft dismissed, "We're not _'stranded'_ and none of that will happen here. And don't act as if we haven't always been islanders."

Jim scoffed, shrugging and then starting towards Molly who stood next to the cat-carried.

"Even so…" he murmured (half cryptically, half smugly) to violet sky and then to the gray pavement, "…we all know this 'friendship' isn't going to last and it's only a matter of time before someone stops playing _nice_ and starts playing to _win." _

"I'd appreciate it if you kept your negative opinions to yourself, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft requested, politely "I predict a fruitful alliance between all of us here and I only want to make everyone as comfortable and as happy as possible."

"'_fruitful'_, you say?_—"_ Jim attempted, but was again interrupted by James.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." James thanked.

"Your welcome." Mycroft smiled, ignoring Jim, "Now if you would all please follow me…"

* * *

James, Moran, Jim and Molly (carrying Toby) followed Mycroft and Anthea across the empty asphalt lot all the way to a complex of buildings.

They were built of off-white stone (a modern mix molded after medieval and renaissance architecture, artificially aged to look 'traditional' like the tourist attractions of the island) that reflected whatever the sunlight was at the time and so were now faintly tinged a soft orange-pink color.

They were greeted at the gates by employees in white uniforms and the owner of the resort in a casual white suit who shook Mycroft's hand.

He informed them that the complex had been vacated of all guests and that it and its employees would now serve only Mycroft and his company—as long as he received the amount agreed-upon by Mycroft's assistant.

Mycroft told him that he would…and then told James that he would be paying the bill with the money he'd confiscated from his British accounts and that hoped he didn't mind.

James decided it was best not to mind.

(After all he couldn't use that money anyway and he had _other _accounts in other countries—_not_ that he needed Mycroft to know about those.)

The resort employees and owner led their new guests through the empty compound (past the outdoor pools, gardens and patios) to the largest building which furnished the hotel.

The wide, wall-length window inside the front waiting-room displayed the view of the sand, shore and sunset so beautifully that Molly almost forgot that she _wasn't _on vacation.

"The concierges will show everyone to their rooms." Anthea stated, "If anyone has any requests, ask them and they will provide. Tomorrow morning we meet in the conference room to discuss what to do next."

James tried to keep a polite and accepting face, but he was just as suspicious as Jim and Moran who eyed Anthea skeptically.

They then gazed past her to, to her boss who had just disappeared down a hallway with the resort's owner, conversing in hushed tones.

It was Molly (who had the best hearing of the group) who overheard the words 'guns', 'security' and 'monitor'.

What they _meant _in this context, however, she did not know.

"May my cat see a vet now?" she asked Anthea and the white-uniformed men beside her.

Anthea turned to one employee, speaking with him in a language that Molly didn't recognize (Catalan). He nodded and then hurried out of the room.

"He's going to town to get one and bring them here." Anthea assured Molly, "It should take an hour or less."

"…okay…" Molly acquiesced, glancing down worriedly at the cat carrier.

"He said he was going to get someone to put your cat down." Jim muttered.

"What?" Molly exclaimed, gaping at Jim and then at Anthea accusingly.

"No he didn't." Anthea denied.

"Your boyfriend is lying to you again." Moran added.

Molly turned her accusing glare on Jim.

"I'm just kidding, _calm down!"_ Jim snickered.

"That _isn't _funny…" Molly hissed, picking up the cat-carrier and stalking away from him.

Jim snorted, taken aback and raising his hands in defense.

"_Somebody's_ sensitive today…" he muttered to himself.

Now Moran and James eyed _Jim _suspiciously.

They didn't know what his 'game' was but they knew that he was already trying his best to sabotage this 'business trip'.

"I apologize on behalf of my brother, Miss Hooper." James attempted at 'damage control', "He's just a little…cranky because he's just woken up from a nap."

Molly sighed.

"…it's fine…" she murmured, staring at down at the coral-colored carpet.

"I think it's time everyone retires for the night." Anthea decided, "It's obviously been a difficult day for us all. The concierges will show you to your rooms now."

It was only eight-thirty at night but nobody complained.

"Alright…" Moran accepted, "Just don't have us all _shot _in the middle of the night."

His face_ looked_ and his voice_ sounded_ serious, but it was joke—_mostly._

"No danger of that." Anthea smiled.

And so_ Moran_ smiled.

He actually _smiled. _

"Well, would you look at that." Jim noticed, "Things really _are_ getting _friendly_ here."

Moran and Anthea's smiles fell instantly as they quickly looked away from eachother to glare at Jim and then roll their eyes and scoff, dismissing the situation entirely.

"I have work to do." Anthea declared, "The concierges will take of you. Mr. Holmes and I will see you all in the conference room tomorrow."

She bowed her head back down to her smartphone and walked away down the hall Mycroft and the resort's owner had gone.

* * *

Molly, Jim, Moran and James followed the three white-uniformed employees down a different hallway, its walls painted a calming and sandy beige.

One showed James to the first room, while another showed Moran to another one down the hall.

The remaining employee asked (in broken English) Jim and Molly, "Separate rooms or same?"

"What is this? _Summer camp?"_ Jim snorted, "Do we_ really _need to keep the boys and girls separate so they don't get _cooties?" _

The employee only understood about a fourth of what Jim had said and so just nodded, taking them further down the hall and then holding open the door so that Jim and Molly (carrying Toby) could enter.

It also had a large window for its fourth wall so that all could see into the hotel bedroom from the outside (if anybody happened to walk by)—and everything that might happen in it, as well.

If it hadn't been overlooking the sea and allowing in the slowly fading twilight that made the atmosphere _so calming,_ Molly would have quickly closed the curtains out of her natural shyness.

The furnishings in the room were clean, sparse and white (to absorb the color but reflect the heat).

Jim flopped down onto the neatly made bed, wrinkling it and dirtying it with his shoes which he then kicked off, flinging them across the room.

Molly set down the cat-carrier, stooping to pull the sleeping Toby out of it.

The cat woke up, hissed and then peed on the nice white carpet.

"Oh my god!" Molly exclaimed, leaping up, "I'm so sorry! I'll clean it!"

"No, ma'am." The employee said, "No trouble. I will get the cleaner."

Jim snickered to himself as he watched Molly pet the still distressed animal while the white-uniformed employee ducked out of the room.

Molly grabbed a wad of tissues from the box on the white dresser and attempted to scrub the yellow mess from the floor while Toby whined.

"Could you shut that thing up!" Jim snapped, sitting up.

Molly turned to glower at him, quickly, before stroking Toby's bristled fur and hushing him.

"What's that smell?"

Molly and Jim looked up to see Moran enter the room, James arriving a few seconds later.

He closed the door behind him to which Jim raised his eyebrows.

Before he could say anything, however, James spoke.

"We only have a few minutes before the concierges return—"

"So a quickie, then?" Jim interrupted, insistent about getting a sarcastic and sexual joke in at every possible opportunity.

"Very funny, Jim." Moran deadpanned, "Now keep your mouth shut and let him speak."

James sighed and then continued.

"Although you may be handling this situation incorrectly, Jim, you are right that this alliance between Mycroft Holmes and I can only be temporary." He conceded, "If Sebastian's former employer turns out not to be an actual threat then Mycroft has no reason _not_ to arrest us all."

"He'll probably just have us all killed." Jim ventured, "Dump our bodies in the ocean like they did to your friend Bin Laden."

"I was _not_ 'friends' with Osama Bin Laden, I never even met—"

"'_Business associate'._ My mistake."

"_You're_ the one works with terrorists—"

"Really? Because it wasn't _me_ defecting to the Middle East and ordering terrorist attacks on London buildings, now was it, _dear brother?" _

"Well, it wasn't _me,_ either_. _Those news stories were lies and they didn't even _mention _my name. You see, I can keep it out of the papers—_unlike you, _oh brother of mine_." _

'_dear brother'?_

'_brother of mine'? _

Now Moran _knew _that if he didn't stop this now, the brothers would argue all night.

Jim was purposely provoking James to anger, who was quickly loosing composure.

And Jim himself didn't seem too composed either, he'd been on edge since they'd arrived and for good reason, too, Moran had to admit.

Everyone in the room knew that despite the luxury of the resort, they _weren't_ on holiday—_they were in prison._

"Look." Moran began, "Every second we waste, Holmes and that woman are deciding what to do with us. Now _maybe_ they let us go, but that's not likely. And we need figure out what to do if they do decide to arrest us—or to kill us."

Molly jumped at the world 'kill'.

"_Kill us?"_ she repeated, "They can't just do that! Don't they work for the government? They're supposed to protect people!"

"And that's how they do it." Moran explained, "In Mr. Holmes position, I'd understand why he'd want us dead. If _I _were him, we'd be dead all ready."

"Sherlock is alive." Molly reminded, "He won't _let_ his brother kill us."

"Sherlock isn't going to _know_ about this, _'sweetie'." _Jim patronized, with a snort as he lay back down, "That's the problem. He's not _here!" _

"I'm going to make some calls." James stated, "I think I can get some people to help us—"

"You mean like Al Qaeda?" Jim chuckled.

James ignored the comment.

"If you don't want to cooperate, Jim, we can leave you behind when they come to pick us up." He warned, then turning to Molly, "However, I don't recommend that _you_ stay with him here, Miss Hooper. You can only be used as leverage by Mycroft against my brother."

"Oh _please."_ Jim snorted, rolling his eyes, "Even Mycroft couldn't have Molly tortured. It would be like torturing a _helpless kitten;_ pointless and cruel. That's more _my_ style than his."

The words 'helpless kitten' reminded Molly of Toby, who she scooped up from the carpet to cradle in her arms.

He'd finally stopped mewing but he had yet to purr as she tried her best to comfort him.

"Is it alright now?" James inquired.

"Don't act like _you_ care." Jim scoffed before Molly could answer.

_"He's_ going to be fine, I think." Molly said.

"You should have left the cat in the woods, animals belong in the wild." Moran told her, "Maybe you can set it free here on the island."

"Why? You want some _target practice_ or something, sniper?" Jim added.

"…I'm just going to go find the vet now." Molly decided.

Awkwardly, she inched out of the room carrying Toby.

Once she was gone, James turned to glare at Jim.

"Understand, _brother,_ that neither of us want to be here but whatever problems we have with eachother can wait until we're out of here." He declared, "I'm not going to let you get us all killed because you can't behave yourself. So if you can't act right, Sebastian _will _have to do his job."

"Oh, and what 'job' is—" was all Jim was able to say before Moran used the punch of annoyance, frustration and _anger _that he'd been saving since he had met Jim to knock him out.

And when Molly returned to the room, a few hours later, with an almost-fully recovered Toby, she didn't bother trying to wake him up this time.

* * *

When the steam finally cleared in the spacious, white-tiled bathroom, allowing him to see his refection in the mirror, Jim was _not_ happy.

A bruise marred the side of his beautiful face.

_How dare they? _

If James and Moran honestly thought that _punching_ him was going to stop him, then they were _dead wrong._

Emphasis on _dead._

No, Jim was going to see Sherlock.

He _was._

And there was _nothing_ James or Mycroft or _anyone _could do about it.

There was nothing _Molly _could do about it.

…and where _was _Molly anyway?

She was normally just _there _and he'd gotten used to having her 'right where he wanted her'.

But this morning Jim had woken up with a splitting headache but no Molly.

He'd have to _fix _that.

And he knew just what to do.

* * *

Although there was no Molly (and no Toby, either) in the room when Jim awoke, there _were _towels and even some new clothes, folded at the foot of the bed (complimentary of the hotel).

Once dressed, Jim ventured down the yellow hall.

After wandering for about five minutes, he followed the sound of voices that spoke English (rather than the language that sounded _mostly_ like Spanish) until he found a room (again with a wall _and_ floor length window, this time displaying a courtyard with a fountain) with a long white conference table.

Seated at the table were Molly, Moran and James while Anthea paced the room as she talked (instead of texted) on her smartphone.

On the table there was a box of donuts and several cups of coffee.

(Oh, so it really _was_ a 'business trip' after all. Can't have a business meeting without coffee and donuts.)

Judging from the light entering through the window, it was already mid-morning.

"I see you finally decided to join us, Jim." James greeted, sipping his coffee smugly.

He was the only one not eating a donut (and Jim had the _sneaking suspicion_ his brother was the kind of paranoid person who wouldn't eat anything he didn't see prepared right in front of him).

"So where's our new 'benefactor'?" Jim inquired, glancing around as he entered what must have been the conference room Anthea had mentioned earlier.

Everyone was in their complimentary white outfits, looking just oh-so relaxed and content…

…but Jim knew that there was only _one_ purpose for wearing white (and it wasn't weddings or working in hospitals).

It was for _blood._

Jim wanted to stain everybody's clothes.

"Mr. Holmes is busy at the moment." Anthea informed him, hanging up her phone and turning to him, "You missed the meeting."

"Did I?" Jim replied, "I'm sorry. So what did he decide? Drowning us at the bottom of the sea or dehydrating us in sun on the sand of the beach?"

Moran rolled his eyes, growling to himself but bit sharply into a donut instead of saying anything.

James continued to drink from his mug pleasantly, ignoring his brother.

Molly stood up, pushing in her chair politely, but then stopping and changing her mind before going over to Jim.

"_No."_ Anthea corrected, matter-of-factly, "As Mr. Holmes informed everyone else earlier this morning, he has people currently assessing the threat of the company that released your brother's keycode to the public. We'll know by the end of the night whether we need to retaliate against Mr. Porlock and his associates. For now everyone is to make themselves comfortable and at home here."

"Well, then, that's that, isn't it?" Jim accepted blandly, then turning to James "What do you think of this decision, dear brother?"

"I approve." James said, simply.

"And what about you, Sebby?" Jim tried, looking over at Moran who at the end of table, the tensest of the group (although out of training, rather than disposition) "You've _got_ to have something more to say than _that." _

And he _did. _

Just not to _Jim. _

Moran turned to Anthea.

"Your employer didn't say whether were all under arrest or not." he reminded her, "What happens to us when this is all over or if Porlock does nothing?"

"None of you are in custody here." Anthea told him (and everyone else, too), "You're here for your own protection. Against Mr. Porlock and anyone he might have told about this—including the British government who would not be so accepting of three dangerous criminals walking free. So be _thankful _Mr. Holmes is sheltering you, _here,_ where the British government has no authority."

Moran considered her words, skeptically.

"And if we want to leave…?" he tried.

"Then leave." Anthea allowed, "But then my employer will no longer be able to protect you."

"That's not a problem." James stated, "And us leaving is also not a problem, then I'm sure you won't mind if I make other arrangements. As nice as this resort is, I don't intend to stay here."

"And neither do I." Moran added.

"That's fine." Anthea shrugged, "You can stay here as long as you want, and you can leave when you choose. Make all the 'arrangements' you'd like. And until you leave, feel free to enjoy all the resort's facilities including indoor and outdoor pools, hottubs, restaurants, bars, a gym—"

"You do commercials or something?" Moran joked.

And there was that Moran smile again.

"I do whatever I'm ordered to, Mr. Moran." Anthea laughed.

"And does it matter who's giving the orders?" Moran dared, slyly.

"_Yes."_ Anthea answered, curt but playful, "It does."

"I _would_ tell you two to get a room," Jim commented, "but this is something I_ want_ to see."

Moran was about to speak, when James stood up suddenly, placing his mug down on the table and then starting towards the glass door to the courtyard.

"I'm going to go make some calls." He informed everyone, then turning Anthea specifically, "Tell Mr. Holmes that if he needs my help with the Porlock situation, I'm more than willing to provide it."

"I will." Anthea agreed, "And you let us know if you need anything."

They smiled politely and shallowly at eachother, James then nodding and exiting the room.

Outside, he was visible not audible as he began to use his cellphone.

Jim turned to Anthea.

"I want to talk to Mycroft right now." he requested, "Where is he?"

"_Mr. Holmes_ is not available at the moment." Anthea responded, "Anything you want to say to him, you can say to me. And if it really needs his attention, then I'll pass it along to him."

"And what if I want to _talk dirty_ to 'Mr. Holmes'?" Jim purred, "You'll let me do it to _you_ and then you'll 'pass it along'?"

"No, Mr. Moriarty," Anthea declined, "I'll call cleaning lady and her wash out your mouth with soap."

It was the most polite retort to his comment. Anything more (like a curse or a slap) would have been _unprofessional._

"The cleaning lady?" Jim repeated, raising a (falsely) confused eyebrow, _"Oh, _you mean _Molly." _

Molly (who had been carefully quiet and very content to stay out of the developing drama of the day) hiccupped at the mention of her name causing all eyes in the room to focus on her.

"You cleaned up that piss off the floor, right?" Jim asked her, "It wasn't there this morning."

"Um, _no,_ actually…" Molly shook her head, "That wasn't me. A janitor came and cleaned last night while you were asleep."

"Oh, well, how is that cat of yours, anyway?" Jim said, "Because I _do_ care. _Really."_

"Toby's fine." Molly said, evenly, then adding a tentative "…How are you? I'm fine…in case you were wondering…"

"I _wasn't."_ Jim stated.

"…oh." Molly replied.

It was quiet, for a moment, until Jim spoke.

"You wanna go back to the room and fuck or something?" he propositioned, then glancing around the room,"…the offer's open to _everyone,_ by the way, it _is_ an 'open relationship' between_—"_

"No, thank you." Anthea refused, in mock politeness.

"Get a life." Moran muttered, leaning back in his chair and rolling his eyes.

Molly said nothing, just sighed and sat back down at the table.

Unable to get a reaction out of anyone, Jim knew he would have to try harder if he wanted his plan to succeed.

Still, instead of sulking, he just shrugged.

"…well, in that case, then, I think I'll go for a walk." Jim announced, "You did say we could leave if we wanted to, right?"

"Yes." Anthea affirmed.

"Good." Jim smiled, "then I'm going to take a look around this island paradise, see what sorts of treasure I can find."

He strolled towards the door leading to hallway.

"Don't go too far." Moran warned, "My employer doesn't want you leaving this complex."

To that, Jim just chuckled and exited the room.

Five minutes was all Molly was able to wait before hurrying out after him, leaving Moran and Anthea to really _wonder_ about Jim and Molly's strange relationship.

* * *

Molly wandered the resort compound for about five minutes, until she was distracted by the sound of someone speaking English (rather than whatever language it was that the resort employees spoke to eachother).

The glass door to a room inside the main hotel building was opened and as she passed by it Molly could see _and_ hear Mycroft talking on the phone inside as he sat at a white desk, typing on a desktop computer.

He looked up from the screen to give Molly a scolding look before gesturing for her to shut the door.

She did and then continued her walk.

_(Yes._ It was a 'walk'. _Just_ a walk. She was_ not_ looking for Jim. Not _at all._ He had been very _rude_ to her this morning and last night and so she was going to avoid him. _Definitely.)_

Maybe _Toby _was around here somewhere…

The patio path beside the off-white buildings passed by gardens and flowerpots of unfamiliar plants and flowers, sometimes visited by butterflies, with a few palm trees growing out of the mulch here and there.

Molly could hear the sound of waves in the distance and felt the sun warming her skin as she walked through the complex.

Today didn't _have_ to be a bad day.

Maybe Mycroft _wouldn't_ have them all arrested and/or killed.

Maybe the nice weather would eventually improve Jim's mood.

As unlikely as those were, Molly knew better than to have a bad attitude.

Having a bad attitude only caused _more_ problems.

* * *

And problems were _exactly_ what Jim wanted to cause.

He_ had_ to get off this island and back to London (back to _Sherlock). _

Even if Mycroft _didn't_ have them all arrested and/or killed, Jim knew that James would still do what he_ always_ did—try to keep Jim_ away_ from Sherlock and under _(his)_ control.

That was not going to happen.

When Jim found James he was no longer in the courtyard, but in the parking-lot.

The long expanse of asphalt stretched on like _pure nothingness_ and Jim knew that _of course_ his brother would chose the most _boring, ugly_ place in the whole resort to spend his time.

James quickly put his phone call on hold when he saw Jim approaching.

"Admiring the scenery?" Jim asked.

"There's better reception here." James explained, "And no _surveillance._ They're watching everything we say and do inside that resort."

"…so who's on the phone that you don't want your new '_best friend'_ knowing about?" Jim guessed, "The Algerians? The Moroccans? The newly liberated Tunisians?"

"Why assume that they're North Africans at all?" James inquired.

"They're just across the pond." Jim shrugged, gesturing to the Mediterranean Sea, "…plus, I know you ran away from London to become a Muslim brother, _brother."_

"While I do appreciate the Arab's intricate geometric artwork and architecture," James conceded, "I don't think I'll be joining _any _organized religion."

"Well, I'm still stuck on choosing between Islam and Catholicism, myself." Jim laughed, "Both remind me so much of _home._ The Pope has got the_ heritage_ advantage, of course, but then Mohammed has the _bombs…"_

"You do realize not all Muslims are terrorists, right?" James reminded.

_"Really?"_ Jim gasped in (mock) shock, "I had _no_ idea! Tell me more."

James sighed.

"What do you want, Jim?" he asked, "Don't think I don't know that you're planning something."

"Is that why you had me punched?" Jim returned, "Because I believed you were _above_ using violence to solve your problems. And frankly, I'm _insulted_ that you think one little nip from your dog is going to scare _me_ off."

"Oh, and I thought you were my 'dog'." James countered, "The one I couldn't keep on the 'chain' or however you said it in metaphors and no specifics…"

"You don't _want '_specifics'." Jim warned.

"…'free range _chicken',_ maybe…" James added, with a smirk, "I think that was something you called yourself."

"Very funny, James." Jim deadpanned, "Now why don't you give _me_ 'specifics' about what you're planning to do when Mycroft breaks his promise to let us go."

"I'm working on that right now." James told him, "If _you'd_ just let me continue this conversation."

He held up the phone in his hand.

"…fine, fine, I'll go, I can tell when I'm not wanted." Jim acquiesced, "There has to be at least _some_ trouble I can get up to around here…"

James returned to his phone call and ignored Jim as he sauntered away back towards the resort complex.

He _did_ have a 'job' to do, after all.

_(Finding away off the island.) _

And Jim was already doing _his._

_(Finding away off the island.) _

_(Getting back to Sherlock.)_

* * *

The resort compound was like a maze.

Molly was_ sure_ she'd passed the same stone walls, flowerbeds, and buildings at least three times before she finally turned a corner and found herself in the courtyard.

The off-white fountain in the middle was sprinkling, surrounded by green grass and orange patio.

Molly walked up to it in order to orient herself.

If she could figure out which one of the three window-walls surrounding this courtyard was the conference room, she could at least get a sense of where she was.

Then she could worry about finding Jim—_No._ Enjoying her day at a nice resort.

Molly scanned the courtyard for the conference room, finally figuring out which rectangle it was because she recognized the people inside.

…and what they were _doing._

(And against the clean white table next to the coffee and donuts, too! _Shame on them!) _

Eyes widening in shock, Molly stood frozen and staring for a moment before quickly hurrying away.

The last thing she needed was for Moran and Anthea to see _her, _too _(watching_ no less), and make the situation even _more_ awkward.

So much for getting a sense of where she was, Molly had rushed blindly away from the courtyard back down the path she'd come.

She slowed and after walking past some familiar structures, she saw the outdoor pool, built to look like a reflecting pool and indeed reflecting a restaurant resembling a small chapel with a pointy steeple.

All the tables on the restaurant patio were empty, just like the tables inside and just like the _entire complex_ (as side from the employees, owners and six guests).

Molly had thought she was alone in this neighborhood of the ghost town until she saw a white-uniformed lifeguard perched in a tall chair overlooking the pool (even though there was nobody swimming in it).

Molly jumped when she noticed him and then giggled slightly in embarrassment.

He watched her with hawk eyes she couldn't look into from this distance.

She waved up to him, slightly, not knowing what else to do and he nodded in acknowledgement.

It wasn't until then that she suspected the 'concierges' at this hotel had some kind military training.

Just the way he _existed;_ expressionless and emotionless like a statue…it reminded her of Moran.

And if these employees did indeed have military training and _she'd _figured it out, then Molly knew that Jim, James and Moran all must have known this, as well—and hadn't _told _her.

This bothered Molly as she continued her trek through the beige compound, passing the pool and restaurant and reaching the second largest building where the gym and indoor pool were.

She could see inside through its floor length window that it, too, was empty.

She passed it by.

Behind the building there was a small shed made of some dark metal instead of off-white and soft-orange stone.

Molly ducked behind a nearby wall when she heard footsteps (no_,_ _bootsteps._ she was able to recognize the difference now) marching nearby.

Peering cautiously over it when she heard voices speaking in another language (Spanish, maybe? something Latin based…) and the screech of a metal door opening.

She could see men in white uniforms carrying wooden crates and stocking them on shelves in the shed.

Molly watched for a while, in confusion and suspicion…but Molly being Molly, she just had to unbalance a ceramic flowerpot that 'just happened' to be seated on top of the wall.

It jiggled twice before falling and crashing down onto the path, shattering into shards, roots, soil and…

…_an electronic device? _

(A camera or an audio recorder of some kind? A bomb…?)

Molly didn't have time to examine the device (not that she was an expert on devices anyway) because once they'd heard the noise, the men in white uniforms had started shouting and running towards its source.

And so Molly ran, as fast and as far away as possible, hoping that the employees hadn't seen her.

* * *

If they _had,_ they didn't _pursue_ her because when Molly got back to her hotel room, locked (pointlessly—as if the employees didn't have a key) the window-door she'd come through and then drawn the curtains up tightly, nobody came for her.

…nobody except _Jim._

The room was dark now, the natural lighting blocked out and the artificial off, and Molly (in her hurry and worry) hadn't seen him there.

He clicked the lamp on.

She jolted.

"If I knew how quickly you'd come running once I got into bed," Jim commented, "I would've got in sooner."

He was lying on the bed and flipping idly through a boring black book he had found in the drawer of bedside table.

"I didn't see—I didn't know you were in here." Molly told him.

"Well if you weren't running_ to_ me, who were you running _from?"_ Jim asked, setting the bible on the night stand and sitting up.

"No one." Molly lied, "I was, um…_jogging."_

"I know what you were doing." Jim accused, smirking "You saw the enemies _fraternizing_ in the conference room, _didn't you?"_

"You saw that too?" Molly exclaimed, "I can't—I mean I—what could they be _thinking?"_

"Mycroft and James are going to be _so jealous."_ Jim predicted, but then shrugged, "…or maybe not. _Who knows?_ With they way they've been acting so _friendly_ today, maybe _they're _fraternizing too…"

Molly processed that thought and then regretted the mental image.

Jim snickered when he saw her face and could tell what she was imagining.

"_No."_ she decided, shaking her head.

"Good." Jim sighed, "I don't want to be the _only _one on this island _not_ 'getting any'. _In fact, _I don't want to be 'not getting any' at all…"

"Well, I think there're actually a lot of people on this island." Molly informed, "It has a major city. We're just in a deserted area."

Jim rolled his eyes, sighing.

"So what happened at the little 'meet-and-greet' this morning?" he inquired, to change the subject.

"I don't know." Molly admitted, "I missed it too."

"…_why?"_ Jim questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"I couldn't find the conference room." Molly explained, with an embarrassed laugh, "I got lost and the concierge didn't know enough English to give me directions and so he had to show me. By the time I got there, meeting was over."

"Concierges speak English." He dismissed, "That one deliberately wasted your time and _you_ fell for it. Now we don't know what Mycroft said, thanks to you."

"It's not only_ my_ fault." Molly defended, "You could have gone to the meeting yourself!"

"I was getting my beauty sleep." Jim responded.

_No,_ he _wasn't._

He was _unconscious._

Molly knew _exactly_ what unconscious was and once she'd taken Jim's pulse to make sure he wasn't _dead,_ she'd been searching the hotel to find someone who could get a doctor for him.

Which was why she'd been up more than half the night before, trying to deal with both Jim_ and_ Toby (who had had a vet check-up and was determined healthy, albeit a little on the chubby side).

And _that_ was why she had woken up late and missed the meeting (with a little help from the unhelpful concierge).

She could tell Jim all this…but she knew he'd just call it an excuse.

Instead she said, "Besides whatever Mycroft said could've been a lie. _You_ said we couldn't trust him."

Jim groaned, shaking his head.

"You really are useless sometimes…" he mused, "But you are good for _one_ thing, at least."

"W-what?" Molly squeaked.

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Get on the bed, love." He directed, deciding to make his _intentions_ a little more obvious to Molly who, for some reason, was playing _oblivious, _"I'll show you what I mean."

Molly's breath hitched (a sudden and unexpected reaction that she couldn't prevent or hide) at the words.

They were too _similar._

_"On the table."_

And Molly remembered what Jim had said in the basement of the abandoned mansion, what Jim had _done…_

She understood (logically, at least, because emotionally she still hadn't forgiven him) that all he had done to her that night was to make a _point _(that only made sense in his mind)…

…but he had _no reason_ to talk like that _now._

Molly didn't move.

"What are you waiting for, Molly, _do it!"_ Jim snapped, "I'm not gonna fuck _myself,_ that's for sure."

"_Why_ are you _acting_ like this?" Molly demanded.

"Acting like _what?"_ Jim asked, taken aback.

"Like _this!"_ Molly repeated because _she knew_ he knew what she meant.

He _had _to have been doing _'this' _on purpose, for whatever reason and Molly was tired of his games.

"I'm just being me." Jim shrugged, innocently.

"No, you're really _not."_ Molly countered, "I know you're a criminal, Jim, but even _you_ normally have _some_ manners."

"You're the one with a stick up your ass today." Jim snorted, "Is it PMS or something?"

Molly gasped.

_She hadn't had a man talk to her that way since school! _

This was a new low for Jim.

Calming herself before she spoke, Molly took a deep breath.

"I put up with _so much_ from you, how can you say—_no,_ I just…I just thought you wanted to be together, and now you're being like _this_ and—"

"You know what I want." Jim interrupted, seriously, standing up and walking towards Molly.

"…you want Sherlock." She 'deduced'.

Jim smiled.

But before he could speak, Molly spoke again.

"Well he's not here." She reminded, evenly, "…_I_ am. And if you can't be happy with that, then—"

"Then I'll _fix_ it." Jim completed.

Molly sighed.

"…you do that…" was all she said, before she stepped past him and exited the room.

He didn't stop her.

No, Jim just continued to smile and watched Molly go.

It was a dirty job, but _somebody_ (Jim) had to do it and everything was going according to Mr. Fix-It's plan…

* * *

Molly brushed off this little disagreement with Jim, just like all the others they had had, because she knew better than to let it get to her.

(Not to let _him_ get to her, of course, because he already _had.) _

Jim was just Jim.

He had his 'mood swings' (or whatever they were) and being cooped up (even on a beautiful island resort) was something he hated.

And then there was _Sherlock._

Molly knew how important Sherlock was to Jim.

He'd try to kill them both so that they could die together, which was just his (strange, insane) way of making eternity.

Maybe Jim had even_ grieved_ when he'd thought Sherlock was dead…

Molly couldn't_ forgive_ Jim, but at least she could try to _understand._

She dismissed his behavior as a child acting out after being grounded and having his favorite toy taken away.

Jim was just in a bad mood because the situation was out of his control, and there was a very real danger of them being executed or jailed for life.

This put Molly in a bad mood, too, but she knew that acting on that would only make it worse herself and everyone else.

Hopefully, James and Moran would figure out something to do to get them out of here (and hopefully, it included her and Jim).

For now, Molly decided to distract herself from all negative thoughts and emotions by doing something _useful._

Finding Toby.

(Even though Moran had suggested setting the cat free on the island, Molly was _not_ going to give up the only friend she had that she could completely trust.)

That was _definitely _what she was doing, wandering around the resort compound, checking all the flowerpots for electronic devices and checking what was inside the mysterious wooden crates in the metal shed.

The shed was locked (bolted shut) and there was nothing inside the other flowerpots (at least not _anymore)_, but Molly _did_ find Toby.

He was in the courtyard, sitting on the fountain ledge and being petted by Anthea who was seated next to him, texting with her other hand.

Molly approached cautiously, trying to keep a blank face and a blank mind, _not_ remembering the_ things_ she had witnessed that morning_._

Seeing Molly, Toby jumped off the edge and trotted over to her.

He rubbed against her legs, leaving cat hair all over the complimentary white capri-pants she wore.

Anthea stood up, revealing the same _damage _to her khaki skirt.

"Good afternoon, Miss Hooper." She greeted.

"Hello…uh…" Molly trailed off, "I'm sorry but I don't know your name, ma'am…"

"Everyone calls me 'Anthea'." Anthea stated.

"But that's not your _real_ name?" Molly inquired.

"No." Anthea answered, with a smile.

Molly, instinctively unable _not_ to, smiled back weakly in politeness.

The awkward silence after that was avoided only because of the sound of waves and wind.

If 'Anthea' wouldn't even say her real name, how could anyone trust her?

"…are we really _not_ in custody here?" Molly asked, after a few moments.

She could discern nothing from Anthea's face.

"Yes." Anthea confirmed.

"Mr. Holmes would just let Jim _leave?"_ Molly tried, skeptically, "After _all _he's _done,_ after all he's done to _Sherlock?"_

"The British government has seized all of both James Moriartys assets." Anthea informed, "That serves as compensation for the crimes Jim committed."

"So Jim can just pay and go free?" Molly clarified, "The money makes up for all the people he's killed? That's like a _bribe!" _

"That's like a lawsuit." Anthea corrected, "And it sounds to me like you _want _your boyfriend to be in custody."

"…I don't want him hurting any more people." Molly explained.

"Well my employer has already made an arrangement regarding that." Anthea told her, "Everyone here_ does_ go free but in exchange James has to keep his younger brother _under control._ If he doesn't or is unable, _then_ Mr. Holmes will take care of the matter himself."

"Jim isn't going to like that." Molly warned.

"He's not _supposed_ to." Anthea dismissed, "If he were anyone else, he'd already be in prison or executed."

She _did _have a point, as much as Molly didn't like to think about that.

"So why not just do that, then?" Molly questioned, suddenly and with more force than she'd meant to give her voice.

"Because now that Mr. Holmes knows Jim and James are related, he doesn't want James as an enemy." Anthea stated, "Or any of his associates as enemies, either…He_ does _want the brothers out of the United Kingdom, though, and so as long as they don't go anywhere within the commonwealth, there will no problems."

"…I see…" Molly accepted, "But what if Jim—"

"If you're so worried about what he'll do, why help save his life?" Anthea interjected, "You know what he's done and you know he's dangerous. Why be with him at all?"

There were so many answers to that question, so many explanations, so many _excuses…_

But Molly didn't feel like telling Anthea the whole story, especially because she knew she'd been _spying_ on her and Jim.

Anthea _knew_ why.

She knew every single reason there was.

How could she _not?_

And so Molly shrugged.

"No reason, I guess…" she shrugged, hopelessly, "I just did, and I just _am."_

* * *

Jim found where Mycroft was hiding (using the resort owner's office and computer) but the sound of gunfire had caught his attention instead.

Most people_ ran_ from gunshots, but Jim ran towards them and down to the beach where he saw Moran shooting at seagulls squawking in the sky.

Unlike Moran, Jim was smart enough to remove his shoes and socks, and roll up his pants before walking onto the sand.

This took a few minutes so by the time Jim was finished preparing himself for the elements, Moran had already stopped what he was doing and turned to eye Jim questioningly.

"I never thought you'd be the first go stir crazy on this island." Jim began, kicking sand as he walked up to Moran.

"_You're_ the one who's crazy." he redirected, already tensely annoyed just at Jim's very presence, "What is your _problem,_ you pervert?"

He was referring to when he and Anthea were disrupted from their _work_…

(and really was 'work', too, they'd actually both been given orders by their employers to do the 'trust building exercises' for their newly formed team of former enemies)

…by Jim standing at the window,_ watching _them (and for god knows how long!).

"You knew there was a window there." Jim reminded.

"There's a window in every room of this resort." He returned, "I cased the place. There's nowhere where we can't be watched. They've got surveillance cameras at every corner."

"Where'd you get the gun?" Jim asked, gesturing to the hunting rifle staked into the sand.

Also scattered across the sand were several dead birds.

Their corpses, now being picked at by live birds, kept their cannibalistic flock from fleeing at the thundering explosions from the gun.

Jim couldn't help but snicker at this, the resort was probably a very busy one usually, the scavengers must have normally had wide selection of trash to eat and were struggling to survive now that the compound had closed.

Moran figured the seagulls were deserving of their deaths, punished for feeding off their own.

"Found it." Moran said, evenly, as if it was actually the truth.

"Can I try?" Jim requested, grinning as he reached for the rifle.

Moran moved to block him.

"You couldn't handle it." he scoffed, "You don't have the shoulders for the recoil."

"_You_ just don't trust_ me_ with a gun." Jim accused, still smiling.

"There're snipers posted on the roofs." Moran informed.

"How do you know?" Jim inquired.

He glanced around at the roof of the off-white buildings in the resort complex, some at sharp inclines and others flat like the balconies on the upper floors.

No snipers in sight.

(Although there were hotel employees looking down at them from some of the balconies, their uniforms like camouflage almost blending them into the walls.)

"Because it's what_ I'd_ do." Moran stated, simply.

"And _you're _the authority on this, huh?" Jim retorted.

"Yes." Moran affirmed.

"Well, you're also shooting at defense animals." Jim chuckled, "You'd recommend _that_ to Mycroft's new people, too, on your 'authority'?"

"I'm just killing time until we get out of here." Moran said.

"...you missed." Jim recognized, smugly, after counting with one finger and under his breath the number of dead seagulls versus the number of shell-casings.

"So?" Moran shrugged.

"_You_ don't 'miss'." Jim disagreed, "My brother wouldn't have hired you if you miss."

"Nobody's perfect." Moran troped.

"You're working for the wrong James Moriarty." Jim stated.

Moran laughed.

"Really?" he asked, "Because I happen to like my current boss but I can't _stand _you."

"Your loyalty to him is _cute_—despite what ever _indiscretions_ you might have had with Mycroft's pretty little _poodle_ today." Jim commented, "James order you to do that…or is he going to have a hissy-fit when he finds out?"

"Why does it matter to _you?" _Moran asked.

"Because I'm sure even_ you_ can see what's going to happen here." Jim declared, "James is going to trade to Mycroft so he and I can go free. You'll be put on trial for the bombings and sentenced to life in prison because the employer you've been so devoutly loyal to chose_ me_ over _you,_ even though_ I've_ been nothing but _trouble_ for him and_ you've_ only ever been the _perfect little pet."_

"_Again,_ why does it matter to _you?"_ Moran repeated.

Jim chuckled, grinning down as he kicked at the shell-casings and the _actual shells_ in the sand.

"Maybe it's cause I_ care_." He divulged, bashfully.

Moran rolled his eyes.

"You're trying to make me betray my employer." He 'deduced', "You've been trying to cause problems ever since we got here. But it won't work."

"So what _will _you do…" Jim questioned, looking up at Moran, "…if Mycroft's men in whitecoats come to take you away and James does _nothing."_

"I'll do my job." Moran stated.

Jim scoffed, turning and walking away from him across the beach back to the hotel.

He smirked to himself once he heard the gunfire again.

* * *

**Moranthea maybe? **

**(Temporarily.)  
**

**Don't kill me.  
**

**Please review!  
**


	13. Snakes in the Garden

**I'm so sorry this took so long. **

**I have no excuses, just laziness, allergies and cloudy weather.  
**

**I hope everyone hasn't forgotten about my story (me).  
**

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed: _Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat, My Beautiful Ending, TheSmilingCat, Shenanigan, lesser mortal, Shay-of-Awe_(2X)_, MissusGages, The Obsessionist, Logical Fallacy, NokNok JJ, 1stSaberKitty._**

**I'm sorry if I forgot to reply to anyone. I've just been writing these past two days to try to make up for the time I wasted. Also not a good excuse...**

**lol. **

**I hope you like it :)  
**

* * *

It was a couple hours aftermidday when two normally very punctual employees sat down for a late lunch at an outdoor table of one of the resort's empty restaurants and cafes.

Because they were the only ones eating there, their orders were served promptly by a white-uniformed waiter. But despite this promptness, Moran and Anthea (normally very prompt themselves) took their time eating and chatting in the warm summer air and under the bright sun as if they were actually on vacation.

James was returning from a four hour phone conversation in the parking-lot and Mycroft was venturing outside of the hotel for the first time that day when they happened upon this scene.

They watched from a distance by one of the glass side doors to the hotel building, and then turned to eachother, both knowing that the other would be suspicious (and for good reason) and know that he was suspicious (for good reason).

"Isn't it_ nice_ how our employees are getting along so well" James commented, "…and so _quickly _too."

"Yes and when the children are friends the families shouldn't fight." Mycroft agreed, smiling pleasantly, "Remember 'Romeo and Juliet'?"

"Does this mean our employees have to die in order for the Moriartys and the Holmeses to get along?" James asked, raising an eyebrow.

It _was_ a joke but something like that occurring wasn't actually too far out of the question.

"Five hundred some years and the world still hasn't learned its lesson?" Mycroft returned, "No, I believe 'Romeo and Juliet' is a _cautionary_ tale."

"Speaking of 'cautionary tales', where are my brother and Miss Hooper?" James inquired.

"I don't know." Mycroft stated.

He continued to watch Anthea and Moran's plates get cleared as they were brought their dessert.

He stared longingly—at the _cake,_ of course.

(He was still on a very restrictive diet.)

"Don't you have security to monitor us here?" James assumed, gesturing to the white camera watching them from above.

"Those just come with the building." Mycroft dismissed, "I have more important things to do than spy on people I'm close enough to have a conversation with in person."

"Oh, like planning how to arrest my employee for the bombings in London that your brother obviously committed?" James guessed, "You know he won't come quietly this time."

"Unless you order him to." Mycroft suggested.

"Why would I willingly give you my best man?" James asked.

"Because you and your brother want to leave here." Mycroft answered.

"You said we were free to go." James reminded, "And I can't go anywhere with Jim if I don't have Sebastian to help me 'babysit' him…_however,_ if Jim ceased to be a _problem _I would have no need to keep Sebastian in my employ."

"For years you've kept your brother out of prison and alive." Mycroft countered, "You _can't _be asking me to 'take care' of him _myself_ now, can you?"

"I'm not asking you to_ kill_ Jim, I'm asking you to_ control _him." James clarified.

"If you, his only living relative, have been unable to do that for _decades,"_ Mycroft considered, "what makes you think_ I_ will be able to?"

James smiled.

"Because you have Molly Hooper." He said.

And Mycroft smiled.

* * *

The two employees chewed their food slowly, conversing so quietly that they had to lean across the table towards eachother to hear.

From afar, it looked romantic.

"What do you think our bosses are talking about over there?" Moran wondered—aloud, but in a whisper.

"_Us."_ Anthea presumed, with a small smile.

Moran chuckled.

Suddenly, Anthea's smartphone buzzed, shaking the entire table and disrupting the peaceful meal. She picked it up to see that she'd received a text from Mycroft.

_Playtime is over. Now get back to work._

Anthea glanced up from her phone over at where Mycroft and James stood.

Mycroft glared over at her with folded arms, pointing down at the patio beside him to indicate exactly where she should be instead of at the table eating lunch with her new 'friend'.

Anthea, smiling apologetically (and embarrassedly) at Moran, rose from the table.

"Seems I've been summoned." She said, before hurrying over to her employer.

Moran watched them enter the hotel and then James walk towards him.

"Looks like you two had a nice afternoon." He 'deduced', eyeing the emptied plates and glasses (that probably hadn't been filled with water).

"Just doing my job, sir." Moran shrugged, standing, "And she's just doing hers."

"I can see that." James accepted, skeptically, "And it was a nice touch there, too, Mycroft pretending he was angry at Anthea for seducing you."

"She didn't _'seduce'_ me." Moran scoffed.

"She's playing you." James told him.

"I'm playing her, too." Moran dismissed.

"She knows." James informed.

"_I know_ she knows." Moran responded, allowing himself to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

James did _not _laugh.

"I sincerely hope you didn't _accidentally_ disclose any sensitive information." He warned.

"Do I seem like a _talkative_ person to you?" Moran asked, voice and face quickly returning to serious.

But not _emotionless._

There was now a hint of bitter sarcasm, small enough to be _almost _unnoticeable—and _completely believable._

(They_ were_ being recorded, after all, and they _knew_ it.)

"You don't seem one to _play games_, either, and yet—"

"I'm not 'playing games', I'm working for you."

James snorted.

"You call that _'working'?"_ he snapped, "You're acting as reckless as my little brother!"

Now Moran snorted.

"Well, maybe I should be working for _him _then." He accepted, "He _did_ give me a job offer, by the way."

"You won't take it." James dismissed, "You_ hate_ Jim."

"But Jim's not the only one making_ '_job offers', _is he?"_ Moran suspected, "You're going to trade me to Holmes for your freedom."

"No, I—" James attempted.

"Don't lie to me." Moran interrupted, advancing towards James threateningly enough that he backed away from him, "I've _always_ been loyal to you, I've _always_ gotten the work done, and_ this_ is how you repay me?"

"_You're_ the one who 'got in bed' with the enemy—_literally!"_ James countered (except it _wasn't_ 'literally' because it was a _table),_ "How do I know you haven't betrayed me already?"

"You_ really_ think that, sir?" Moran questioned, narrowing his eyes.

"I consider all possibilities." James affirmed, evenly.

"I don't have time for this." Moran spat, shaking his head.

He pushed past James and started away from the hotel restaurant.

"You have 'time' for whatever I _tell _you have 'time' for!" James called after him, _"You_ work for _me!" _

"Not anymore." Moran declared, not turning around to face him as he strode away, passing the outdoor pool.

* * *

Mycroft and Anthea stood at the wide hotel window, watching the 'confrontation' come to an end with Moran and James stomping away in different directions.

"I suppose that's supposed to convince me that Mr. Moran will be loyal to me rather than James when he comes to work with us." Mycroft chuckled.

"I think they overdid it a bit." Anthea critiqued, with a shrug.

How she'd even seen the scene Mycroft did not know, as she'd been staring down at her smartphone the entire time.

They'd been listening to the audio via the phone so maybe she had the security-camera footage as well.

(But why watch a show on a screen when one could see it _live?_ Mycroft couldn't understand…)

"I appreciate the drama." Mycroft shrugged.

And when James and Moran were out of view, Mycroft and Anthea left the window.

* * *

After lunch in the hotel kitchen (complete with bored chefs on duty with nothing better to do) she had stumbled upon, Molly had thought it would be_ fun_ to venture down to the beach…

…_but_ when she arrived at the sand to find multiple dead seagulls dead on the sand being pecked at by the living birds, she changed her mind.

Toby tried to chase them but Molly didn't let him, not wanting him anywhere near the feasting beasts (which were unclean and probably carried diseases that could affect a foreign animal un-immune to the local sicknesses).

And so Molly and Toby returned to the hotel to find something else to do.

She knew it was best to avoid Jim when he was in a combative humor (and _yes_ 'humor' because apparently he thought this was all very funny) and so she wasn't going to go back to the room.

Molly (Toby trailing after her) decided to test if Mycroft and Anthea's assurances that everyone here was 'free to go' were really true. She walked the entire empty expanse of the black parking-lot without hindrance but as soon as she reached the edge, hotel employees in white uniforms drove up in a golf-cart to give her a ride back to the resort.

Once back inside the hotel building, Molly decided it was time to text Sherlock again.

Even if he was angry at her (for good reason), he'd still want to face Jim again, _wouldn't he?_

And he couldn't do that if Mycroft had Jim jailed (or killed). Sherlock would _not _like his older brother 'going behind his back' like this. And so even if Molly was angry at Jim (for good reason), she still had to try to save him.

Because what would save him, would save _her._

…_except_ that Molly couldn't find her phone.

After checking her pockets, she was forced to return to the room (thankfully Jim wasn't there) and check yesterday's clothes.

Still unable to find her cellphone, Molly began to search the entire room.

She looked under the bed, under the covers, in Toby's cat-carrier, in the bathroom, even in all the empty dresser drawers.

She looked _everywhere._

But the phone was gone.

Anyone could have taken it, Molly realized, to cut off her contact with the outside world.

Now she was isolated and completely helpless.

_No._

Molly was _not _going to be helpless.

If Jim, James and Moran all couldn't figure a way to get them out of Mycroft's custody, she still had to try.

This was a hotel, there had to be phones around somewhere. She'd even _seen _Mycroft talking on one earlier.

Molly was hurrying down the hall towards the office she'd seen him use when she turned the corner to find Moran walking.

_With a gun. _

(It was some sort of hunting rifle, she guessed.)

"_Where's Jim?!"_ he demanded, voice and eyes both sharp and intent.

"I don't know!" Molly exclaimed.

"Excuse me, then." Moran grumbled, stepping past her to march through the beige hallway.

Molly leaped to block his path, waving her arms in alarm.

"Now, I know Jim can get annoying sometimes—well, _all _the time, really…" she cried, "but don't _shoot _him!"

Moran said nothing, simply stepping around Molly again and continuing on his way. Molly was about to rush after him but she heard a laugh from behind her and spun around to see Anthea.

"He's not going to _shoot_ Jim." Anthea dismissed, "He's just going to_ find_ him."

"Why?" Molly asked.

"My employer wants to speak with him." Anthea answered.

"…about what…?" Molly inquired.

Anthea just shook her head.

"Please come with me." she requested.

It was _polite_—but still an order.

"…what if I _don't?"_ Molly dared.

To that Anthea smiled.

Molly glanced backwards, Moran was gone…but two white-uniformed men stood casually (threateningly) where he had been.

"You will." Anthea said.

She led Molly back to the conference room and seated her at the long table.

Thankfully, there was now a white tablecloth draped over it, converting it into a dinning table.

"Wait here." Anthea instructed.

She then exited, leaving Molly alone—with a resort employee posted at each door.

And so Molly waited.

* * *

"I don't _appreciate _being _dragged_ here." Jim sniffed.

'_Here'_ was the cathedral-style restaurant by the reflecting-style pool.

Mycroft sat at one of the outdoor tables—the same outdoor table, actually, as his employees (because they were both_ his_ now) had eaten at earlier, closest to the pool with a nice view of the natural body-of-water in the distance.

"First James has his boxer-dog _punch_ me and now you have him dragging me around by the _collar." _Jim continued, then turning to Moran, "You just can't seem to take your hands _off _me these days, Sebby, maybe it's all that sea air…"

Moran glared but said nothing, turning and walking away now that his job was done.

"Please, sit down." Mycroft invited, gesturing to the chair across from his.

"As you wish." Jim obliged, mocking a bow before he pulled out the chair and sat down in it, "Now tell me, lord of the flies, why have you summoned me here?"

"I just wanted to have a little chat." Mycroft shrugged, "My schedule was open and I thought we'd do lunch."

As if on cue—_no._ not 'as if'—_actually_ on cue, white-uniformed waiters emerged from the churchesque restaurant to deposit meals on the table in front of Mycroft and Jim.

Mycroft unfolded his napkin into his lap.

Jim lounged an elbow up on the table.

"What did you wanna talk to me about?" he asked, lazily.

"Molly Hooper." Mycroft answered, frankly.

It wasn't often that he got straight to the point.

Jim raised an eyebrow. He did _not_ tense—he _deliberately_ relaxed.

And so Mycroft smiled.

"What's there to talk about?" Jim inquired.

"You've been _'stirring the pot', _shall we say, since we arrived here…" Mycroft began, rotating the spoon in his soup bowl as a demonstration, "But everyone's on to your games, _'Jim'_, and none of us are going to play along."

Jim stared down at his own bowl.

(Tomato based, with floating bits of _something._ He was tempted to spill it onto Mycroft's clean and pressed white button-down—or even his own._)_

He never liked soup. There was nothing to _bite._

Mycroft must have been on a diet or something, Jim 'deduced'.

"Please, just _try_ it, at least." Mycroft coaxed, taking a sip from his spoon and smiling in another demonstration, "It's local fare. Fish, fresh-caught."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Feed me?" he tried, hopefully.

He opened his mouth expectantly, but Mycroft shook his head in disgust.

Jim sighed, sinking down into the chair to sulk.

"Are you going to threaten Molly to make me behave?" he asked, "Because if you_ are_ can you just get it over with so I can go back to getting my suntan?"

"If that means you will indeed behave, then _yes,_ of course." Mycroft confirmed, "Are you going to need any specifics of what I'll do to her if you don't?"

"Do whatever you want to her." Jim allowed, "We're on a _break_ anyway. She's been 'holding out' on me, lately…"

"You may have fooled your prison penpals with that one, but you won't fool me." Mycroft chuckled, "I know you care for her."

"I care for _Sherlock,_ too." Jim retorted, "Didn't stop me from killing him—well _almost _killing him. 'Love thy enemy' is kinda my thing, you see."

"Yes, and I'm sure you don't like other people touching _your _'things'." Mycroft accepted, "God forbid they get _broken." _

Jim laughed.

"Molly isn't my _'thing'."_ He countered, self-righteously, "I'm a man of the modern age. I don't treat my woman as property."

"And yet you call her _yours…"_ Mycroft reminded.

"A defect of _our_ great language—see _ my_ point?" Jim shrugged, "We can't speak English without _its _possessives. It's why _your_ people thought you could own the whole world."

Mycroft ate a spoonful of soup to stop himself from joining Jim's discussion about the English language.

Then he spoke.

"Don't try to change the subject." Mycroft warned, "We're here to talk about Miss Hooper."

"You won't do anything to her." Jim dismissed, "Just like you didn't do anything to her _before,_ when you had the chance to arrest her almost _daily." _

"I'll do what's necessary to keep the peace." Mycroft declared, "Everyone here wants to work together—except for you."

"Not _'everyone'." _Jim corrected, "I saw James and Sebastian's little_ squabble _earlier. I don't think _they'll_ be working together anytime soon."

"You and I both know that was all an act." Mycroft said, "Shame they don't have your talent."

"Yes, they're _terrible_ actors." Jim agreed, "Poor Seb has only got _one_ facial expression and James'll _never_ look sincere no matter _what_ he says or does."

"I suggest they—" Mycroft stopped when he caught himself tangenting into another conversation with Jim about something totally irrelevant, clearing his throat before beginning again, "I suggest you worry less about them and more about the woman whom—for whatever reason—you chose to spend the last sixth or so months of your life with."

"_Sherlock's_ the reason." Jim told him, "He was busy so I played with her instead."

"Well, if you want to continue 'playing' with Miss Hooper," Mycroft responded, "then you're going to have to play _nice." _

"If I 'play nice' do I get to see Sherlock again?" Jim asked.

"No." Mycroft answered, "You know I won't allow you to challenge Sherlock ever again. But you _can_ keep your 'consolation prize'—if you stop antagonizing the people here at this resort in order to divide us…_However,_ if you don't—"

"I will." Jim declared, suddenly.

Mycroft blinked, taken aback.

He hadn't thought Jim would agree _so quickly. _(He hadn't thought Jim would agree _at all.)_

"You _promise?"_ Mycroft checked, "I know you're a 'man of your word', Mr. Moriarty, and so you have to _say _it."

Jim sighed, eyes on his soup instead of Mycroft's face.

"I promise." He promised.

"Good." Mycroft smiled.

But it wasn't a _real_ smile. He knew Jim wouldn't give in _this_ easily—unless there was a _catch._

Jim Moriarty never fell on his sword unless he was sure his opponent would fall onto the other side of the double-edged blade.

"…But when I finally _do_ kill Molly, _myself,_ you'll have nothing on me anymore." Jim smirked, now looking up and across the table at Mycroft, "You've just used your only move against me and you know you can only use it _once._ I hope it was worth it."

"It will be." Mycroft assured, keeping his false smile.

Jim breathed a laugh and then stood, pushing in his chair after him.

"Thank you for lunch, Mr. Holmes." He thanked, before sauntering away, leaving behind his bowl of untouched soup, now cold on the table.

* * *

Anthea had just turned into one of the few blindspots in the resort complex when she saw Jim.

He was sitting on an oversized ceramic flowerpot, picking the exotic plants by the stems from inside and grinned as soon as he looked up to see her approach.

( Anthea had been on her way to see Mycroft, he'd just texted her to tell her that Jim had '_promised'_ not to cause trouble. (Apparently, promises meant something to the liar who hadn't killed since he'd 'come back to life'.))

So Anthea smiled back.

"Are those for Miss Hooper?" she asked, gesturing to the flower in his hand.

"They're for _you, '_Calypso'." Jim informed, straightening and then starting towards her, "I thought if you gave 'Guns' a chance, you might give me one too. I may not be as macho but I_ am_ in touch with my emotions and I know the ladies_ love_ a sensitive guy."

Anthea's smile faded, replaced by rolled eyes.

"Why don't you go give those to your girlfriend." She suggested, "Before she finds a new suitor."

...'_suitor'?_

So Anthea actually _did_ know the Odyssey myth she borrowed her name from.

Jim chuckled appreciatively.

"Why are you hooking up with the sniper anyway?" he questioned, "We're all on camera here, but I know this isn't a reality show. There has to be a_ reason_ for the sudden summer fling on the island."

"You've never heard of a marriage to unite two opposing houses?" Anthea attempted.

"So when's the wedding, then?" Jim returned, twirling the flower between his fingers, "I approve as long as_ I_ get to be the flowergirl."

He began to pluck off the petals.

"You know why Sebastian and I are sleeping together." Anthea stated, "It's part of the _job." _

"Whores." Jim insulted, lightly, tossing the plant down to the patio, "The game's no fun if both players are playing eachother."

"You don't even believe that." Anthea dismissed, _"In fact,_you've spent your life dedicated to the opposite."

"Even as counterparts, Eve was only a _rib_ to Adam." Jim mused, "She'd made from him. She _belongs_ to him."

"Are you trying to tell me my place?" Anthea scoffed.

"_No,_ I'm just reminding you whose rib you're made from and to what dust you shall return." Jim countered, "I'd say the same thing to Moran if he were here."

"You're the one who made your brother lose his last loyal employee." Anthea reminded.

"I know." Jim accepted, nodding apologetically, "And I was wrong. Now, after my lovely lunchdate with your employer, I've realized I need to set things right."

Anthea snorted.

"Set things right with your girlfriend." She returned.

"I don't_ need_ an 'Eve'." Jim countered, "I've already got a 'Steve'."

"But you're not going to see Sherlock Holmes again." Anthea declared, "You just made a deal with my employer, _remember?" _

"Yes, but that deal only lasts as long as 'Miss Hooper' is _alive."_ Jim declared, "So what if I was to go kill her right now? Then I could have as much Sherlock as I want."

"No," Anthea disagreed, smiling politely once again, "You'd be shot dead on sight for attempting to murder someone under Mycroft Holmes's protection and then you'd_ definitely_ never see Sherlock again."

"…oh." Jim gulped, "Well,_ that's_ not good, is it?"

Anthea shook her head, matter-of-factly.

"No, it's not."

(Except, actually, it _was.)_

* * *

And waited.

And waited.

And _waited. _

Molly waited for almost two hours at that table in the conference room (without even a phone to keep her from getting bored) until Anthea's voice sounded over the PA-system Molly didn't even notice the hotel had.

'_Dinner will be served in the conference room tonight. Six o' clock. Attendance is mandatory. Mr. Holmes will be making an announcement.' _

It interrupted the awkward half-conversation Molly was having with the two resort employees who spoke _moderate_ English.

(They did speak perfect Spanish, though, along with their native Catalan. Sadly, Molly had taken_ French_ in school.)

"What time is it now?" Molly inquired.

Both men checked their watches and then glanced at eachother.

"Four-thirty." One finally said.

And so Molly sighed, head sinking down onto the white tablecloth in exasperation.

* * *

Molly jerked awake and upright when she heard a conversation enter the room.

She looked over at the glass-door where Mycroft and Anthea were speaking as they strode into the room. They were discussing_ Jim _and instantly silence once they saw Molly was awake.

Anthea quickly began texting, making Molly remember her missing phone. Mycroft and his employees probably thought that she wouldn't even notice it was gone or that she'd just assume she'd misplaced it if she did.

This time, however, Molly was glad that she was being underestimated. If they didn't see her as a threat, they wouldn't bother _hurting _her. Sometimes it was _better_ to play weak and stupid.

"So what's the announcement?" Molly asked Anthea and Mycroft, conversationally.

"I'm waiting until everyone arrives." Mycroft explained as he sat down at the head of the table.

Molly decided not to mention what had happened on that specific edge that morning.

"I'm sure they'll be here soon." Anthea added, pulling out the chair to his right with one hand while still texting with the other.

She was right, too.

Molly wondered what was going on when Moran and James entered from different doors and sat at opposite ends of the table, not even _acknowledging_ the others' presence.

Mycroft looked up, smiling and nodding to them both in turn (and then grinning to himself at their silly charade).

Molly decided she didn't_ want_ to know.

But where was _Jim?_

'Attendance is mandatory' included him, too, but he didn't like following orders.

She imagined Jim being dragged into the conference room by white-uniformed hotel employees, kicking and screaming like the child he was being today. And so Molly was surprised when Jim entered of his own accord and went over to her calmly.

(He _seemed _in a better mood than before—but it could just be the 'calm before the storm' and Jim was very good at making storms.)

"Hi, Jim…" Molly greeted, tentatively.

"Hi, Molly." Jim returned, evenly.

He then leaned in to kiss and although Molly was never very comfortable with public displays of affection she knew she had to accept or the situation could easily become a lot less _friendly. _The kiss was quick (just a peck, really, like they were a couple at a dinner party with friends) before Jim took the seat next to her.

Maybe this would be a good meal, after all.

"_See,"_ Jim addressed Moran and James, "We kissed and made up. If I can do it, so can you. Now all you two need to do is—"

Okay, maybe not.

"Can you, for just one day, _survive _without making a sexual joke?" James interrupted.

"Oh, _come on,_ James." Jim groaned, "It's just a joke. Can't I make a joke? _I thought_ we were all _friends_ here."

"'Friends'?" Moran scoffed, "Since when do _you _have _'friends'?"_

"You're_ all_ my friends." Jim declared, "And my life would be empty and boring without every one of you."

He flashed a smile that _glinted_ lies.

Seeing the looks of annoyance and anger on everybody(but Jim)'s faces, Molly hastily interjected.

"What a sweet thing to say, Jim." She tried.

She also smiled.

It was toothless and forced, but not insincere.

"All of you are so _dull,"_ Jim continued, "like flint, you strike the fire of _genius_ in me."

"I don't think we need to hear this." Anthea stated.

And everybody(but Jim) was in agreement—until Jim said:

"Every comedian needs his 'straight man' and I'll take as many as I can get—not that any of you men are actually _straight_. Or women, either. Anthea's obviously a technophile and I saved Molly_ just_ before she got desperate enough to become a lesbian."

Anthea put down her smartphone and Molly gasped, but other than that the women said nothing.

The _men,_ however, were now determined to prove themselves straight.

"I hired an entire female floor of assistants at my offices to put it on _public-record_ that I am_ not _gay." Mycroft declared, "Anthea can attest to that."

"Anthea _and_ women from _every continent _on this_ planet_ can 'attest' to the fact that _I'm _not gay." Moran declared.

"_Statistically,_ the probability of two siblings—other than identical twins—_both _being gay is next to _impossible."_ James declared, "Especiallyconsidering that gay people make up just ten percent of the population. Therefore if _you're _gay, Jim, I _can't_ be."

"Well, I'm the only one with a proper girlfriend here." Jim countered, gesturing to Molly.

She shrank into her seat, very much preferring to be left out of the conversation.

"I don't have _time_ for a girlfriend." Mycroft dismissed, "I have a very busy schedule."

"Who needs a girlfriend when you can just _pay?"_ Moran dismissed, "It's the same thing as buying a girl dinner, anyway…"

"So many of my female students have _trouble_ with numbers," James dismissed, "but no trouble at all with their _letter grades."_

Jim opened his mouth to further contest, but Anthea spoke first.

"That's enough." she decided, "Mr. Holmes still has to make his announcement."

"…Oh, right, yes." Mycroft affirmed, quickly, "Thank you, Anthea."

Anthea nodded.

She did_ not_ roll her eyes—which she would _never _do at her boss.

(Even if she really wanted to.)

Molly realized then that Jim was not just acting this way because he was frustrated with being trapped and without control…but to deliberately make everyone else just as frustrated as he was.

He was trying to make everyone fight amongst themselves.

And it was _working._

Now Anthea was _mildly annoyed_ at Mycroft because of Jim, and Molly guessed that Jim was _also_ the reason Moran and James weren't getting along, as well.

James and Mycroft were _already_ mistrustful of each other and the fact that their respective employees had randomly had sex probably didn't make the situation any easier, either.

But none of that explained how he had treated _Molly_ before.

Jim knew she wouldn't be picking sides and so how did picking a fight with _her _help his plan—_whatever it was. _He obviously didn't trust her enough to tell her._(That,_ or he was just hurting her for_ fun_ again.)

"What's the announcement, _Mr. Holmes?"_ Jim asked, "The suspense is killing me."

Mycroft ignored Jim specifically, to speak to the whole table.

"James and I have reached an agreement." He announced, "He, his brother and Miss Hooper are free to go—as long as they don't return to London, and in exchange Mr. Moran will work for me."

Well, that explained why Moran was not happy with his (now former) employer. But now_ Molly_ not happy, either.

"What?" Molly exclaimed, "Why can't I go back to London? All my family members are there and all my things, too. I need to go back!"

"I'm sorry, but we can't let you or your boyfriend and his brother back in the country." Anthea told her, "You all are going to have find somewhere else to live and you can work that out amongst yourselves."

"…okay." Molly acquiesced.

Even though this was _not _okay.

As soon as they were out of here, she would find away to return—even if only to collect her belongings and say goodbye to her siblings.

"Everything'll be alright, dear." Jim consoled, placing an arm around Molly's shoulders to comfort her.

She relaxed into him, but she knew that this too was part of whatever game he was playing.

"Well, if everyone is happy with this arrangement then we can begin dinner." Mycroft stated.

He didn't wait to hear any possible complaints, instead signaling for the employee guarding the hall-door to step aside and allow more employees in white uniforms to push carts of steaming food.

"And let's try to keep the conversation civil." Anthea added, glancing around at every male at the table with a _threateningly _civil smile.

They ate in silence.

* * *

At sunset the sea air was still as warm as the colors in the sky.

For once, Molly knew _exactly_ what Jim's 'plan' was when he suggested that they 'take a dip in the hottub'.

But Molly had a plan of her own. She wanted to _talk._

She was going to ask Jim just what he was up to and she wasn't going to participate in his 'plan' until he gave her a truthful answer.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, looking him directly in the eyes as they broke from a kiss.

"What do you mean?" he dismissed, already closing his eyes to kiss her again.

The hottub was walled by tall plants (trees, flowers, bushes) in order to make it look like a hot spring in nature and feel secluded and intimate. But Molly knew that anyone (hotel employee or hotel _guest)_ could come around the corner at any moment and see her and Jim. She also knew that they were most likely being recorded.

And so her next whisper was a kiss to Jim's ear.

"_You know_ what I mean. You're _planning_ something. I can tell."

Jim snorted, pulling away to lean back against the mosaic of white and gold colored tiles adorning the hottub.

He was in complimentary white swimming-trunks (being prevented from wearing a speedo) and Molly was in the most modest tankini the hotel provided. (It was also white, just like everything else here, and so Molly was thankful it wasn't her 'time of month'.)

"I'm not planning anything." Jim laughed, "I had to give that all up."

He was speaking loud enough to be heard by any passersby _or_ listening-devices.

"What?" Molly responded, not believing his words but sounding confused and (most importantly) neutral.

"I saved your life today, did you know that?" Jim continued, chuckling, "Least you should do is _thank _me…"

He leaned towards her.

She backed away from him.

"What are you talking about?" she inquired, now genuinely confused (and a little _concerned,_ even).

"Oh, you don't worry about that, darling." Jim dismissed, "It's all taken care of…now let me 'take care' of _you."_

He reached for Molly but she stood, so quickly that splashed some water onto the surrounding patio and onto _Jim. _

He glared, growling.

Wet and out of the warm water, the evening air was now very chilly to Molly who wrapped her goosebumped arms around herself.

"Just tell me what's going on, Jim!" she demanded, _not_ _caring _who could hear.

"Sit back down." Jim ordered.

"No!" Molly refused, "Not until you tell me what you're doing. You can't treat me like this! "

"I can do whatever I want to you." Jim scoffed, "And you'll let me. Because you have nobody else."

"No—"

"_Yes._ No one here is your _friend_—except _me._ No one here will _protect_ you. Mycroft even threatened to kill you, torture you, _whatever_ just to get me to behave myself! And I _did._ I agreed to his deal and I stopped—_all for you." _

That shocked Molly.

Not that Mycroft would threaten her, he had no reason to help her…

…but that Jim would agree to deal like that, for her.

It would put him under Mycroft's control forever…and separate him from _Sherlock._

Molly lowered herself back down to Jim's level, submerging herself in the bubbling water.

"_Why?" _she asked.

"Because no one's allowed to hurt you but me." Jim answered, smirking, "…And the deal only works if you're alive."

Molly took a deep breath.

Jim had threatened to kill her before and never gone through with it—but he'd never had this kind of _motivation _before.

Molly knew better than to believe Jim would just quietly move to a foreign country with her where they would spend the rest of their lives together.

Jim didn't want_ that._

He wanted Sherlock.

And Molly knew Jim would do anything to get him.

Including kill her.

Even if she_ was_ important to Jim, she was _nothing _compared to Sherlock.

Molly knew who Jim would choose.

"They're listening." Molly reminded him, "They're probably watching."

"I'm not going to_ kill_ you." Jim returned, "I'm just making you understand that you live for as long as_ I _want you to. So you should really do a better job of keeping me _interested,_ you've been so _boring_ lately..."

"What do you want me to do?" Molly questioned, carefully.

"I could give you step by step_ instructions_…" Jim mused, "…but we _are_ being recorded, so I'll lead and you can just follow along."

Molly inched away from him when she felt his hand toying with her bathing-suit bottom under the water.

"Not here!" she squeaked, "Everyone can see!"

"So?" Jim shrugged.

"Sex, that's _all _you want?" Molly inquired, disbelieving, "No. There has to be something else."

Politely, she removed his hand with both of hers.

He raised an eyebrow at her, giving her an irritated look.

"What else_ is_ there?" Jim snorted.

"There's so much—" Molly began, then realizing that Jim had probably been joking, and so restarting with, "Why are you so _obsessed _with sex?"

"I'm not the one 'obsessed'." Jim countered, "Everybody else is. It's the one thing _guaranteed_ to get a reaction out of _anyone_—no matter _who._ Adult, child; nun, whore…everyone. And stronger than anything else, too. Even _blood, _even _death_…It's so funny how everyone's lives _revolve_ around it. How easily it _controls _people."

"You can't control _me _using sex." Molly stated.

"But isn't that what I've _always_ done?" Jim chuckled.

"No." Molly said, shaking her head solemnly, "And if that's what it's been about for _you,_ it hasn't been about that for _me." _

"Well then, if it's about what I'd do to you if you _don't,"_ Jim accepted, "then it would be _my pleasure_ to threaten you with blood and death again."

"You don't have to." Molly conceded, with a sigh, "I'll do what you want."

"I_ want_ you to fight back." Jim told her, "It's no fun if you just _lie there._ And I want you to _scream,_ too. You're always _so quiet…_ but I want the _whole island _to hear why a 'good girl' like you betrayed Sherlock Holmes to run off with a _nasty criminal_ like me."

'Step by step instructions'.

Jim would lead.

But would Molly _follow?_

* * *

As soon as they heard the scream, Moran and Anthea jumped out from behind the bushes to find Jim pulling Molly back down into the water as she tried to crawl across the patio away from him.

"Get off of her!" Anthea shouted.

She, Moran and two white-uniformed hotel employees rushed towards the scene.

Moran wrenched Jim out of the hottub and off of Molly, getting punched in the face with a wet fist as thanks.

"What are you, _a rock?"_ Jim grumbled, shaking the pain out of his now open hand, then "Who's the pervert now, spying on us like that when we're trying to have sex?"

Moran said nothing and just wiped the water from his expressionless face.

"It didn't look like both parties were _consenting."_ Anthea stated, helping Molly up from the ground.

An employee handed Molly a towel which she wrapped around her shaking body.

"Thank you." Molly mumbled.

"Come with me." Anthea offered.

She led Molly away from the hottub, away from Jim, and back to the white building.

And this time Molly was glad to follow.

* * *

And when the only light in the night sky were stars, Molly sat outside on the deck listening to the waves she could barely see in the darkness. Toby was curled asleep on her lap and she pet him with one hand, while sipping from a hot cup of tea held in the other.

She heard footsteps behind her on the white-painted wood, _high heels. _

_Anthea._

Molly didn't turn to face her, but felt a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry about what happened tonight." Anthea sympathized, "You don't have to be with him anymore if you don't want to. You can come back to London with us."

"Okay." Molly said.

* * *

She'd slept in a different hotel bedroom that night, tossing and turning (and displacing poor Toby who finally decided to sleep in the bathroom sink).

In the middle of the night, Molly woke up groggily to feel her phone in her hand, under the pillow she held close to her in place of something _(someone)_ that used to be there in her arms.

She thought she remembered hearing _someone_ whisper, like a kiss to her ear.

'_See you soon, Molly dear…' _

And maybe _something else,_ too.

But it was probably just a dream.

* * *

Molly startled awake to the sound of gunshots, shouts and running footsteps. She stood, walking to the wall-length window and opening the curtains.

She could see _panic _outside in the courtyard, amongst the trees and flowerpots.

White-uniformed 'concierges' stood at attention, totting black guns as Anthea addressed them with instructions. Once she was finished, they separated, rushing off out of the courtyard in different directions. Anthea then hurried over to where Mycroft, James and Moran stood conversing by the fountain.

Molly opened the glass-door and ventured across the green grass over to them on.

They turned to face her as she approached.

"Excuse me, but what's going on here?" Molly questioned, seeing their worried and frustrated faces.

"Tropical storm warning?" Mycroft attempted, pleasantly but weakly.

"Hurricane Jim." James corrected, chuckling darkly and glancing a glare over at Mycroft, "He's gone and three men are already unaccounted for."

He moved to reveal the fountain behind him, its water now _red _instead of clear, flies buzzing around it hungrily.

Molly gasped.

"Jim said he wouldn't kill anyone!" She exclaimed, "He _promised!" _

"He lied." Moran stated, readying the rifle in his hands.

Molly turned to Mycroft.

"You said we were free to go, Mr. Holmes." She tried, "Maybe Jim just _left."_

"Until we know where exactly he is, we have to assume he's still on the grounds somewhere." Anthea spoke on behalf her employer, "Armed and dangerous."

"I'll look for him." Molly offered.

"No." Anthea denied, "Your coming with Mr. Holmes, Mr. Moran and I on the plane back to London."

"And what about _me?"_ James interjected.

"What _about _you?" Moran snapped, curtly.

James ignored him, turning to Mycroft angrily.

"I asked you to control my brother for one day." He reminded, pointing a finger at him sharply, "Just until we left this place. And now he's gone. You can't hold me responsible for Jim's actions anymore, Mr. Holmes. _You_ let him escape, he's _your_ responsibility now."

"Back up." Moran warned, putting himself _and_ his gun between his new employer and his old.

James raised his hands in defense and retreat.

"My contacts are coming to pick me up shortly." He informed, "If you don't find Jim by then, don't bother contacting me."

With that, he turned and stalked away, back through the conference door room into the hotel.

Mycroft and Anthea watched him leave, saying and doing nothing.

"You're just going to let him go?" Moran demanded, taken aback.

"His name will come up in your 'trial'." Mycroft informed, "He won't be able come back to Europe."

"And what about his brother?" Moran asked, "The missing men and the blood in the fountain are just a distraction. We all know Jim is long gone from here."

"You're correct on all accounts but one." Mycroft agreed.

"What do you mean?" Moran inquired, an eyebrow raised.

Mycroft smiled.

He dipped a finger into the red liquid inside the white fountain, bringing it up to sniff.

Everyone gaped at him in shock and he tasted it appreciatively.

"It's not _blood."_ Mycroft explained, with a chuckle, "It's _soup."_

* * *

**I hope you all liked this chapter. I'm sorry if it's 'filler'. **

**I thought it was important... but I mean, I'm not the one to judge that because of my own bias towards my opinions lol. ****  
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**Outside evaluations are usually more valid.  
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**I would very much like some, please review!  
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	14. Home

**Hi!  
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**Shorter chapter today, and it is officially 'filler' this time.  
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**Don't hate me, Logical Fallacy (or anyone lol)!  
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**And thanks SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed:  
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**TheDayItRayne's (2x)  
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**Shenanigan  
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**TheSmilingCat  
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**Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat  
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**MissusGages  
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**Shay-of-Awe (2x)  
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**FlyingPigMonkey  
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**lesser mortal  
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**laal ratty  
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**Calicar**

**(PS: Calicar, you have PMs disabled so I can never reply to your reviews. Thanks so much for reviewing this story and 'The Mouse and the Spider' also!)  
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**Hopefull ya'll like this chapter and I'll be working on the next one soon!  
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* * *

**(June 22.)**

Sally and Anderson were already waiting on the sidewalk in front of Scotland Yard as soon as John and Lestrade stepped out of Lestrade's car and started towards the building.

"You two can't be here." Sally stated, folding her arms.

Anderson mimicked the gesture and the two of them stood to block the entrance.

"But we have proof Moriarty is real—_and still alive."_ Lestrade countered.

"The keycode dot com." John informed, "That's the code Moriarty used to break into the most secure locations in the city."

"I'm tired of getting that popup every time I try to use the internet." Anderson groaned, "But if that was _really_ Moriarty's secret code, why would he just make it available like that?"

"I don't know." John admitted, "But we know he's crazy."

"And he's out there somewhere." Lestrade added, "You have to help us before he kills more people."

"We_ are_ helping." Anderson reminded.

"Then why haven't you been answering our calls?" Lestrade asked.

"We've been busy." Anderson explained.

"There were _three bombings,_ remember?" Sally snapped, "And our supervisor_ disappeared_ the day after his outside consultant Sebastian Moran was arrested in front of everyone. We have run the investigation ourselves, we had no time—"

"But you had time to read my text that we were coming here," John interrupted, "and then come all the way down here to stop us?"

"It's against the rules for you both to be here." Sally reminded, "We'll lose our jobs, too, if we just let you in the building."

"You two _should_ have lost your jobs." John stated, "None of this would even be happening now if you didn't wrongly accuse Sherlock for that kidnapping."

"I followed the evidence."

"No, _you_ blamed Sherlock because you didn't _like _him—"

"We worked with Sherlock for five years, putting up with his criticisms and know-it-all attitude. No, I _didn't _like him—but _he_ didn't like _us,_ either. And it wasn't until that girl screamed and those shoeprints were his size that I—"

"That girl screamed and the shoeprints were his size because Moriarty was _framing_ Sherlock for the crime. You just _refuse_ to believe—"

"An innocent doesn't commit suicide. That's what _you're _refusing to believe."

"That's enough!" Lestrade declared, Anderson nodding in agreement.

John opened his mouth to respond to Sally's statement but Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder.

Sally was smiling smugly until she saw that even_ Anderson_ was glaring at her.

Argument narrowly avoided, Lestrade continued.

"All I'm asking is for you to help us, keep us in the loop so we know what's going on."

"_We_ don't even know what's going on!" Anderson replied.

"Well, then you'd better find out." Lestrade told him, "Unless you want your_ wife_ to find out about your 'office romance'."

He shot a glance over at Sally.

"That's blackmail!" She exclaimed.

"I tried asking your help as a _friend,"_ Lestrade reasoned, "but apparently we're _not_ friends anymore so I have to do it like _this."_

"We'll tell you what we know when we _actually know_ something." Anderson promised, "But we don't know anything more than you do right now."

"Fine." Lestrade conceded.

John said nothing, already turning and heading back towards Lestrade's car.

Lestrade waited until Anderson and Sally had gone back inside Scotland Yard before joining him at the vehicle.

"You know where we have to go next." John checked, evenly as he opened the passenger side door.

Lestrade nodded solemnly.

"Back to Molly." He said.

* * *

But Molly wasn't there.

Once again, she was missing from her flat and this time her pet cat was gone too.

And so it was then that Molly Hooper was _officially _added to John and Lestrade's _unofficial_ investigation.

* * *

**(June 25.) **

Instead of returning home to her flat, Molly went to stay at her sister's house.

She'd been told by Anthea that government employees would be protecting her (from Jim) and the only way Molly could ensure that her sister's family was safe as well (from Jim(—who happened to know where they lived)) was to live with them.

And when Molly arrived there was already a black car parked a little ways down the street.

Beth greeted Molly at the door with a smile and hug.

Molly was only able to return the smile (weakly), since her hands were full (a suitcase in one and a cat-carrier in the other), but Beth accepted this without offense, stepping aside to allow her sister into the house.

"I'm sorry about your job." She sympathized, "They shouldn't have just fired you like that."

"It's alright…" Molly dismissed, setting down the heavy cases from her hands onto the wooden floor with a thud, "I'll find a new job."

She then bent to release Toby from his carrier.

The cat was eager to explore the new setting but Beth scooped him up instead to snuggle him.

"He's so cute." She commented to Molly (after telling Toby himself in an artificially high voice), "What's his name again—or hers, if it's a girl?"

"Toby." Molly told her, "And he's a male."

"Okay, Toby." Beth grinned, finally returning him to the floor where he began to sniff around.

"I hope nobody's allergic." Molly said, watching Toby hop up onto the living room couch.

There were no longer boxes stacked around the house; everything was successfully unpacked and the home was fully furnished and decorated…

…_and messy._

(Probably Matthew, recently turned six and on summer break.)

"I don't think any of us are." Beth shrugged, then noticing Molly's eyes wander to the clutter of toys, books and newspapers strewn around the living room surfaces (floor, coffee table, shelf), "Sorry about the mess. I should've cleaned up when you told me you were coming but I had to get Matthew over to day camp."

"I don't mind." Molly allowed, "I'll help tidy up. It's the least I can do, Beth, since you're letting me stay here."

She started with the newspapers on the coffee table, folding them into their original shapes and then stacking them.

Next she did the books, closing the open ones (bending the corner of the open page, first, of course) and returning them to the bookshelf against the wall (green—newly painted, maybe only a few weeks ago).

"I never understood how you had the patience for that." Beth laughed, gazing at Molly in awe as she cleaned, but then turning serious, "…but I do have to ask. Why are you staying with me and not your boyfriend?"

Molly paused.

She set down the toy train she'd been picking up from the floor (where it had left wheel marks on the wood), and stood to face Beth.

"We broke up." She informed.

"Oh, Molly…" Beth sighed, hopelessly, (why couldn't her sister_ ever_ hold on to a man?!), "I'm so sorry. You two seemed happy…Are you—?"

"It's fine." Molly declared, quickly_, "I'm_ fine….Jim and I weren't right for eachother, anyway."

"Ah, well, that's still too bad, though." Beth considered, reaching towards her to pat her on the shoulder, "You know, Tom _does_ have some single friends that I could set you up with…"

"Uh, no thank you." Molly refused politely, smiling awkwardly, "I don't think I need anymore drama in my life right now. I'll just focus on finding a new job and helping you out around the house, I know it must be stressful for you, what with the baby coming and all."

Beth, on maternity-leave, was now almost five months pregnant and finally beginning to show.

(And she was carrying low, too, Molly suspected the baby would be a girl this time.)

"That'll actually be a really big help, thanks Molly." Beth thanked, sincerely.

"Oh, it's no trouble at all." Molly shrugged, "I don't have anything else to do."

"But you do know what this means, right?" Beth asked, eagerly.

Molly shook her head, confusedly.

Beth grinned.

"We get to go shopping for the baby, together." She declared, triumphantly, knowing how much shopping annoyed her sister…and how fun it was spending time with her older sister.

And Molly smiled, too, just happy to finally be_ home._

* * *

Nobody asked any questions when Mycroft Holmes returned to the government offices after mysteriously disappearing for two and a half days.

Nobody except _Sherlock _Holmes.

After placing Moran into temporary custody while awaiting trial, Mycroft had sent Anthea (along with other employees and a construction crew) back to the base in the countryside to remove all evidence that it ever existed.

He also deployed teams (the same teams who had been searching for James Moriarty earlier in the week) to find _Jim _Moriarty wherever on earth he was hiding and teams to guard Molly Hooper (and her sister, whom she was now staying with) from Jim if he came to kill her so that he could then (try to) kill _Sherlock_ (as per his and Mycroft's agreement).

After that, Mycroft spoke various secretaries and aides who informed him of what he'd missed, accumulating a large pile of files, letters, and memos to review.

Carrying this pile himself (because Anthea wasn't there to carry it for him) down the vacant hall, it was night when Mycroft was finally able to enter his _official _office.

('Official' meaning that not much of his work actually got done there.)

It was spacious, but windowless and dark.

When Mycroft entered, Sherlock dramatically spun around in the leather swivel-chair to face him, propping his feet up on the desk (and some important document that happened to be there, too).

"Have a nice holiday, Mycroft?" Sherlock inquired.

Mycroft sighed, setting down the stack of papers and switching on the lamp.

"Business trip." He returned.

He didn't sit down.

There _was_ a chair across from Sherlock's—no _his _chair_ (_Sherlock was just stealing it)—but Mycroft was _not _going to sit on the other side of _his_ desk and be 'talked down' to by his little brother.

"If it was_ 'business', _then why couldn't I reach you?" Sherlock questioned.

"_Because_ it was business." Mycroft answered, matter-of-factly.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked, "The base you were using was completely empty."

"And soon it will be gone." Mycroft completed, "As to where I was, Sherlock, _deduce."_

He smiled in amusement as Sherlock's concentrating eyes scanned the sand his shoes had tracked onto the carpet, and the slight tan that had colored his skin.

"Windows." Sherlock concluded, looking back up at Mycroft who raised an eyebrow indicating that he should continue, "Windows because you don't spend a lot of time in the sun and even if you _did,_ you were on a business trip and those normally happen indoors. Therefore, _windows._ Larges ones, without curtains. The glass magnified the sunlight, giving you tan even though you were inside."

"Very good." Mycroft smiled, "And the sand?"

"It means your business trip took place somewhere in North Africa or the Middle East." Sherlock stated.

Mycroft chuckled at that.

"No, actually." he shook his head, "It's beach sand. You can tell by lighter color _and _the salt content—_if _you were to chemically analyze it, that is, which we don't have time for."

Although Mycroft had no intention of telling Sherlock _where _(island resort) he'd been or _who _he'd been with (Jim Moriarty, most specifically) he still couldn't miss the chance to correct him.

And Sherlock had no intention of telling Mycroft how he knew _exactly_ what desert sand looked like (and how it differed in color and salt content from beach sand) because he'd actually been to the Middle East to visit (rescue) someone (Irene Adler).

"So you had a 'business trip' at the beach, then?" Sherlock gathered, skeptically, "And what was the business?"

"You know I can't tell you that." Mycroft reminded.

It was true.

Just for different reasons than the usual government-required shadowy secrecy surrounding his job.

Sherlock smiled, chuckling even in defeat as he pulled an item from his pocket to even the 'score'.

It was phone.

He tossed it to Mycroft who _fumbled,_ but caught it.

"Did a little 'house-cleaning' while you were out." Sherlock smirked, "Found _this."_

"And what is it?" Mycroft asked, examining the cellphone as if he had no clue what (or _whose)_ it was.

"Jim Moriarty's phone." Sherlock identified.

"How did you get this?" Mycroft questioned, careful not to sound _too_ surprised.

The last time he'd seen Jim's phone was when Porlock took it from Anthea back at the base…but he wouldn't mention _that _detail.

Mycroft wasn't going to let Sherlock know that Jim was alive—at least until his employees had captured him.

"House-cleaning, I_ told_ you." Sherlock repeated, "It was mailed to your office here with a 'thank you' note. It was from someone named 'Porlock'—a pseudonym, I presume."

"Most likely." Mycroft shrugged.

Sherlock stood, stepping around the desk to stand next to Mycroft by the door.

He _knew_ his brother was lying, but he couldn't see it on his face or hear it in his voice and so there was nothing he could do…_yet. _

Sherlock wasn't going to let Mycroft know that he knew that Jim was alive—at least until he was safe from capture.

"By the way," Sherlock began, already on his way out the door, "I found us a new work space—since the old one is going to be _'gone'_, as you put it."

"Where?" Mycroft

"Paddington Station." Sherlock chuckled, "I thought if Jim Moriarty could 'set up shop' in King's Cross, why shouldn't we have our own train station?"

(For a second Mycroft wondered (worried) how Sherlock knew about that (did he know Jim was still alive? Had Jim _told_ him)…but then remembered Jim's phone and was relieved.)

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Paddington's busy and crowded." He reminded, "We'd blend in, yes, but_ you're_ not a 'people person' are you, Sherlock?"

"No, but perhaps I'd just like to be surrounded by_ life_ after my untimely 'death'." Sherlock deadpanned.

Although he didn't like _sentiment,_ he couldn't miss a chance to make fun of Mycroft's metaphorical (and maybe a little flowery, too, sometimes) manner of speech.

Mycroft laughed in dismissal and allowed Sherlock to make his dramatic exit down the dark hallway—despite the fact that the brothers were now living together again and so would be returning home to the same townhouse.

* * *

**(July 2.) **

Within a week Molly was able to find a new job—but only because of her_ old_ job.

It was at a hospital recently merged into the trust which owned St. Bartholomew's (along with four others now) that was willing to hire her due to a letter of recommendation Molly's former boss had written (under threat of a wrongful termination lawsuit from Molly's lawyer brother-in-law).

The job wasn't in a morgue, but that was fine with Molly who didn't want to work directly with people—alive _or _dead—at the moment.

All she wanted was to be busy and alone.

And so she was working in the lab of the hospital, doing the blood (and other bodily fluid) tests and analyzing the results.

Because PH levels, blood and chemicals didn't _lie _and the meanings of tests results were always easily identifiable (at least to Molly) without any hidden motives.

The pay was alright, too, just as good as her previous pay because of her experience and credentials.

It was also because of Molly's old job that Lestrade and John found out where she was working currently (by asking her disgruntled manager).

And so, on the morning of Molly's first day, John 'just happened' to be in the sector of the hospital Molly was arriving at.

The laboratory was not yet open at seven-thirty in the morning and since it wasn't a place for patients there was no waiting room, just a long and dimly-lit corridor in front of a few locked doors.

At least it wasn't a cold, basement morgue.

Too nervous (nothing _special _(Jim related) just the normal nervousness caused by anything _new _in her life) for breakfast that morning, Molly stood with her back against the (white with one blue stripe) wall.

Her stomach was rumbling and she was glad nobody was around to hear it—except that someone was.

She looked up when she heard the approaching footsteps, expecting a hospital employee (perhaps a new coworker or boss), or maybe, a lost patient or visitor (too bad she wouldn't be able to give directions just yet).

Instead she saw John Watson.

_(Well, at least it wasn't Lestrade…) _

_Why _was he here? What was he going to _do?_ What did he _know?_

"…Hi, John…" Molly greeted, with a wave.

She tried to make sound friendly and cheerful and she ended up almost shouting, the noise echoing in the all-but empty hall, making John tense and stop walking.

"Molly?" he addressed, in (false) surprise, "What're _you _doing here?

Molly opened her mouth to speak, but before she could John added:

"—_no._ that was a rude question. You don't have to answer it if you aren't comfortable..."

Oh god.

John thought she was here for some sort of medical problem.

What, did he think she had a _sexually transmitted disease_ or something?!

"Oh no, I'm here for a job!" Molly exclaimed, "I'm not here to get_ tested_ or anything!"

John opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Molly added:

"—not that there's anything _wrong _with that, of course."

Because what if _John _was there for a test?

She didn't want to offend him.

"You're here for a job?" John clarified, to which Molly nodded, "So am I."

And he _was,_ too.

John hadn't had a 'real' Job since he'd quit the practice his ex-girlfriend Sarah managed to help Sherlock with his cases full-time.

And having a job in the same hospital as Molly would allow him to monitor her, seeing if she knew anything about Moriarty (if he was still alive, where he was, what he was doing).

It would also give him a bit of much-needed money (he did have access to Sherlock's but he wasn't going to use it (and he definitely was _not_ going to burrow money from his sister)).

"You _are?"_ Molly returned, in (sincere) surprise.

How coincidental.

…but the hospital _was_ hiring…

"I am." John affirmed, with a forced but friendly laugh, "I thought it was about time I got off my sister's couch and got a real job."

"Your sister's couch?" Molly repeated.

She hadn't known John had a sister.

"Yeah, I've been staying at her place these past weeks." John explained.

Since Sherlock had died.

Since Sherlock had 'died'.

"Oh, me too." Molly stated, "I mean not her couch, the guest room. But I have been living with my sister since I lost my job. I couldn't afford the rent for my flat."

Her last sentence was_ currently_ untrue…

…but _would _be true within the next few months if Molly didn't make up the money with this new job.

"Really?" John accepted, "…I'm sorry."

He hadn't known Molly had a sister.

"It's okay." Molly shrugged, "I like spending time with my sister and her family. And I get to babysit my nephew, he's six and a lot of fun."

"Sometimes family's all we have." John paraphrased (something that Mrs. Hudson had once said, because apparently she'd gone to stay with her sister too and he missed her…motherliness).

"…Well, what about _friends?"_ Molly countered, with hesitance and caution because John's best friend _had_ just 'died'.

But that didn't mean John had _no_friends, right?

(What about Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson? Molly had thought three were all keeping in touch.)

"Friends are good, too." John reasoned, "But you never know who you can really _trust."_

Molly gulped, stiffening.

It was almost as if John had said that _purposefully_, just to gage her reaction.

(He had.)

But Molly kept as much emotion as possible from her face as she nodded in agreement.

"I understand." She conceded, solemnly…but then added, hopefully, "I hope we can be friends, though, especially if we're going to work together."

John chuckled, serious face breaking into a smile.

"I thought we were already." He laughed.

* * *

Sitting at home, watching television while his kids took their (mandatory and forced) naps Lestrade heard a knock on the front door.

Pausing the program (primetime and DVR recorded for daytime viewing), Lestrade hopped up from the couch, hurrying over to the door with his remote still in hand.

But when he opened the door, instead of finding a visitor, all he found was a gray business-card on the doormat.

On the front it displayed the name of a defense and security contracting company (the same one that Lestrade and John had visited to ask about its former employee Sebastian Moran) and their motto in shiny, black lettering.

_**The Custodians**_

'_**we clean up your messes'**_

(Lestrade thought it was…_clever_ and understood why the firm wanted to fool people into disregarding as a maid service, allowing it the discretion it needed.)

And on the back of the card, was a note.

_Dear (ex) Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, _

_Yes, we know who you are we and we want to hire you. _

_Come into the office for a job interview at your convenience. _

—_Samantha_

Lestrade shrugged, examining the business-card.

He_ did_ need a new job and working for that company would be the_ perfect_ way to find out more information about Moran (and so _Moriarty). _

He turned, closed the front door behind him and returned to watching television.

* * *

**(June 25.) **

But Sherlock didn't return to the house where he was (regrettably) staying with his older brother while he was 'dead'.

_No. _

He returned _home._

To 221b Baker Street.

It was dark in the flat and Sherlock didn't bother turning on the lights as he navigated through the usual cluttered that had been cleaned and packed up into boxes (by Mrs. Hudson who hadn't had the heart to actually donate them yet).

He located his chair and upon sitting down in the darkness, noticed that his violin was seated next to him.

…_waiting…_

It looked like it had _missed_ him.

Sherlock picked it up and the bow, trying a few tentative notes before beginning to _play._

Lightly and slowly (just for_ fun_ really not _seriously)_ he attempted what he knew of certain unfinished requiem; just the bare melody and only what he could manage from memory.

It seemed _appropriate…_or maybe he was just _bored._

…and _waiting…_

Sherlock didn't stop, even when he heard the downstairs door groan open and footsteps creak up the stairs, disrupting the music.

It wasn't until he heard the voices and saw lights flip on the flood the room that he finally set down the violin.

"Don't stop on my account." Jim Moriarty greeted, "I thought it was beautiful and I can just imagine the sweet _music_ we could make together…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hello, 'Jim'." He said.

And Jim smiled.

"Oh, so you boys are on a first name basis now." Irene Adler commented, also smiling, "That's an improvement."

Sherlock nodded at her in acknowledgement.

"Hello." He said.

Because he still wasn't on_ any_ name basis with her.

(She _was_ just a woman, after all—albeit _The Woman.)_

"Hello, Sherlock." Irene greeted, smirking at his discomfort around her.

She had Jim 'beat' in that 'arena', which, in turn, made Jim uncomfortable.

_He _was supposed to be the only one able to set Sherlock on edge!

Rolling his eyes, now, Jim turned to Irene.

"So how's Jersey?" he inquired (in an incorrect _Brooklyn_ accent).

"California." Sherlock corrected, not looking at them but instead staring straight ahead towards the kitchen.

(And it wasn't like one couldn't get a tan and sandy shoes (neither of which Irene actually had) on the New Jersey Shore…it was just that Irene had told him where she was when she'd agreed to come back to London.)

Jim eyed Irene's outfit, recognizing the clothing brands.

"The Grove." He guessed, "Los Angeles….you get your own star on the 'Walk of Fame' in Hollywood, yet?"

"No, but I had many of those famous names seeing stars." Irene smirked.

"So you started up your old business again?" Jim commented, "How's _that_ going with the Americans being such _prudes?" _

Irene laughed.

"Business has been better than ever, actually." She explained, "I'm based in Orange County, you see. They're so conservative there, it's _adorable_…And people only ever want something _more_ when they're not allowed to have it. They love breaking _the rules." _

Jim laughed too, but couldn't help but realize that Irene's assessment of human nature described_ him_ as much as it described any _normal _person.

And that bothered him a bit—not that he let it _show. _

Jim decided to turn to Sherlock and change the subject.

"So, Sherly, how've _you_ been?" he asked, "…_Alive,_ I take it?"

"I was _heartbroken _when I heard you'd died." Irene lamented (overdramatically), "…until I realized you _hadn't._ You used the same surgeon as I did to create the body-double."

"_Shame on you,_ Sherlock." Jim chastised, wagging a finger, "That's not very _original. _A genius like you should be able to do better."

"I didn't invite you over to chat." Sherlock dismissed, folding one leg over the other as he finally looked up to face those standing in front of him.

"Oh, I guessed as much." Irene sighed, "It's always all work and no play with _you,_ Sherlock, dear."

"But I think he _does_ want to play." Jim countered, a grin growing on his face, "He wouldn't have called us here otherwise. Now, the question is…what is the _game?"_

"No game." Sherlock stated, "I want to hire you two."

And Jim and Irene _couldn't help_ but smile, wondering _just what_ Sherlock had planned for them.

_It was good to be back…_

* * *

**Okay, so Sherlock, Jim and Irene are all going to be working together now! **

**Yay! (?)  
**

**And I have to credit the name of the private military company to lesser mortal because she gave me the idea by reminding me of that old 'who watches the watchmen' thing in Latin with her chapter six review.  
**

**Hope that wasn't too silly lol.  
**

**As for the hospital Molly will be working on, I looked up a bit about the British healthcare system on (you guessed it) Wikipedia. **

**There is actually a trust of five London hospital that owns St. Bart's and just bought a few others this year (2012). Molly's working at one of the four others, probably Newham. ****  
**

**I guess all I can say now is review a lot so I can force myself to keep writing. **

**It's getting very difficult these days due to the cloudy weather that gives me headaches (and excuses) and makes me sleepy.  
**

**College is looming ahead, too. I have a limited number of days left.  
**

**I don't know how much time I will have to write, especially since I'll be typing on a laptop (and I hate laptops).  
**

**But since I don't plan to go partying, I guess I can do this instead of that.  
**

**Not instead of homework, of course, because I'd NEVER not do homework.  
**

**Ever.  
**

**:)  
**


	15. Lives of the Living Dead

**edit: somehow this chapter got deleted and replaced by chapter 16.**

**idk what happened.  
**

**the bit of cache I could find:  
**

** _I did a little more with the Wikipedia and the google maps and the websites and stuff. Looked up the subway system in London, and the hospital..._  
**

* * *

"So how _is_ Greg, anyways? I haven't seen him a few weeks."

"Oh, he's actually looking into getting a new job."

"Really? Where?"

It was warm and at least_ partly_ sunny outside and so when they left the hospital, Molly and John decided to walk through the neighborhood to the nearest tube station.

Now (approximately six in the evening), they finally approached the platform.

Molly didn't know where John's sister lived, but if it wasn't nearby like hersister's house (three train stops away), then she wondered why he made the trip all the way out to this borough just for a job when someone with his resume could easily get a job anywhere in the city and surrounding area.

Maybe it was to _watch_ her…or maybe it was just to avoid being _recognized._

('Hey, look! Isn't that that doctor who used to follow that fake detective around? Do you think he was in on the scam…or just really, really _stupid?')_

John had always been polite but mostly indifferent to Molly in time she'd known him but now he made an effort to be nice, and so they'd taken their lunchbreaks at the same time and eaten together almost everyday since they'd started work.

Maybe it was to _watch_ her…or maybe he was just lonely and friendly.

But before John could answer Molly's question about where Lestrade was planning to work, the tube station came into view.

…and so did _Jim Moriarty._

Molly stopped and stared, eyes squinting at the far away but still familiar figure.

_Was it really him? _

_Or just someone that looked like him?_

Molly knew that sooner or later Jim would come back.

She didn't know what to do.

Molly turned to John.

But before John could answer Molly's question about where Lestrade was planning to work, the tube station came into view.

…and so did _Sherlock Holmes._

John stopped and stared, eyes squinting at the far away but still familiar figure.

_It wasn't really him. _

_It was just someone that looked like him. _

John knew that Sherlock would_ never _come back.

And he knew just what do to.

John turned to Molly.

"I have to go." They said at the same time, in abrupt and uncomfortable unison.

Laughing to break the tension, the then two looked back at the (actually,_ above_ ground) station to see the train glide to stop, obscuring the respective people they _may or may not_ have seen only moments before.

Molly and John then faced eachother once more.

_Did he see that too? _

_Did she see that too? _

Their faces were _indecipherable, _forced into their 'natural' states of neutral expression.

"That's your train." John reminded, gesturing at the parked train.

They each took one of the two different lines the station provided.

"Oh! You're right!" Molly exclaimed, "Now I've_ really_ got to go!"

She turned and hurried towards the platform, searching the pockets of her new navy-blue hospital uniform for her plastic farecard.

John watched her go, knowing that she wouldn't make the current train (and probably knew that herself too) but would still try anyway.

(And, in the end, it would be alright because even if she didn't get the _first_ one, she _would_ get the one that came after and make it home.)

As predicted, the train began to pull away just as Molly was scanning her card at the gate.

She sighed and walked the rest of the way.

Hurrying had really just been an excuse to check if Jim was there at the train station.

He _wasn't._

(And if he_ had_ been, he was gone now.)

_Still,_ Molly was sure this time that he'd come back (for her).

John waited on the (residential) street until the next train had left (with Molly inside it) before finishing the journey the tube station himself.

He sighed and walked the rest of the way.

Waiting had really just been an excuse not to answer any awkward questions Molly might've asked had they entered onto the platform together.

Like where John was going.

* * *

The tube train sped away, without _Molly _but _with_ Jim and Sherlock onboard (along with about forty other passengers, mostly hospital employees in blue uniforms or other medical workers) and taking their seats.

"Looks like our pets are becoming friends." Jim smirked.

"The train was two minutes late today." Sherlock stated, "They almost saw us."

"So?" Jim shrugged.

"That can't happen again." Sherlock warned.

With a sigh that was also a laugh, Jim rolled his eyes and leaned against the window of the crowded train for a late-afternoon catnap.

_Yes,_ he'd gotten the window-seat—not that Sherlock _cared._

(An old lady with groceries who had to stand amongst the masses of people traveling home from work _did,_ however, care.)

Sherlock (who hated the tube) just sat, rigidly still, eyes facing straight ahead and staring at nothing.

(But he _was_ tempted to just _leave_ Jim there asleep when they reached their stop…but he knew better than to leave the troublemaker unsupervised, even when sleeping.))

* * *

The graveyard was as peaceful, quiet and solitary as any graveyard should be.

It was very green and brown, it had enough grounds and trees to isolate itself from any intrusive noises from the city that would distract mourners from their memories and disrespect the dead.

John stood before the grave.

_SHERLOCK _

_HOLMES_

He gazed into the reflective stone, but not wanting to see _his_ face (in the place of someone else's) he glanced down at ground in front of the grave.

The earth was still as freshly disturbed as it had been when Sherlock was buried…

…_three weeks ago._

Something was wrong here.

Had Sherlock's grave been _dug up?!_

And by _who?!_

(The first names that came to John's mind were those on his and Lestrade's 'M List' of 'suspects' they were 'investigating': Moriarty, Mycroft and Molly.)

John turned to go, planning to find the manager of the graveyard in his office, but when he did he saw someone standing there.

"You have a lot of nerve coming here." John growled, clenching his fists and glaring at the person.

"I followed you." Kitty Riley declared.

She was wearing a longcoat that looked_ vaguely_ like (a cheap knock-off of) Sherlock's standard one.

She was probably the one John had seen from a distance, sneaking around the tube station.

"What do you want?" John demanded as evenly as possible.

(But if Kitty wasn't a female, she would have _already_ been punched.)

"An interview." Kitty stated, "You've rejected all the other offers from news outlets but I thought since we have a rapport—"

John interrupted Kitty with a snort.

"We don't have a '_rapport'."_ He corrected, "You're a liar—or are you really just _that stupid_ to believe Moriarty's bullshit?"

"I gave Richard Brook a chance to tell his side of the story." Kitty said, "And now I'm offering you the same."

"No," John chuckled bitterly, "You just want money."

"Doesn't everyone?" Kitty shrugged, "I'm willing to pay you for an interview."

"I don't want your money." John refused, then adding, "You're just as sick and dishonest as_ Moriarty_ was. What's wrong with you? Journalists are supposed to tell the _truth!"_

"Nobody_ cares_ about the truth!" Kitty laughed, "The public just wants to be told what they want to hear. They want to learn what they already know—even if it's all false. They want to be _entertained._ They don't care if it's fact or fiction."

John shook his head.

"Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?" he asked, "After telling lies all day, you tell yourself that you're only giving people what they want?...You're just lying to_ yourself_ too."

"It's negative stories that sell papers." Kitty explained, "You think we do this for the fun of it? No, we've got a business model! I mean just look at politics over in America, their news is controlled by an Australian company, for god's sake! And so is _our _paper."

"Well, I don't read y_our _paper and I wouldn't even use it to clean up a spill with." John spat, (words said actually more polite than his original choice), "And the only reason _anyone _takes your lies is because you refuse to give them truth! People read newspapers, they watch the news, they listen to the radio_ because_ they care! You can't say that they don't—if they didn't you'd be out of a job!"

"I've got a job because people like _tabloids."_ Kitty countered, rolling her eyes, "Facts and information _bore_ people. They don't _read—"_

"Oh,_ I_ get it now." John realized, cutting Kitty off with another laugh of disbelief and disgust, "You _used_ to have morals. You _used_ to believe in something…but you were _poor_ and nobody _paid attention_ to you and so you sold out your integrity to get recognition in the 'journalism' world—and for _the money,_ too, of course."

"Yes." Kitty confirmed, determinedly (but _not_ unashamedly), "And it _worked." _

John rolled his eyes.

"You ever think the problem _wasn't_ that _everyone else_ wanted lies," he considered, "but that _you_ just _can't write?"_

And_ now_ Kitty was offended.

"_You're_ the one who can't write!" She retorted, "I've read your blog—I don't know _how _you got so many readers. And with all those readers, you're really wasting a perfect chance to cash in—"

"Not everything is about money!" John countered, then calming himself to state, "You think people are stupid and they'll believe anything. You think people don't care about the truth. You think all that matters is money and fame….But you're wrong and I'm sorry for you."

He pushed past Kitty, striding quickly and limplessly away from her and Sherlock's grave.

"You know, you're smarter than you look!" she called after him.

"Go write a novel." John dismissed, not turning around to look back at her as he continued away through the grass.

Once he was gone, disappeared down the path and out of sight, Kitty left.

And once she was gone, disappeared down that path and out of sight,_ Sherlock_ wasleft.

Standing alone in the graveyard, behind a tree and beside his own grave.

* * *

The next day, after a quick lunch in the hospital cafeteria (because John had to hurry back to work, having actual patients waiting unlike Molly) Molly was passing by the waiting rooms on her way back to the laboratory department when she saw Jim.

All day she'd felt as if someone had been watching her, but that had become a normal thing now because Mycroft had his employees guarding her at all times and so she hadn't let the standing hairs on the back of her neck bother her.

Until right then, of course, when Jim was just standing there in the hallway of an 'employees-only' sector of the building, leaning casually against the white wall as if he was waiting for her (which he was).

How had he gotten past hospital security?

How had he gotten past _Mycroft _security?

"Jim." Molly acknowledged.

And Jim rose from the wall, starting towards her and starting to smile.

"Molly." He returned, with a nod and a smirk.

Molly kept her face expressionless.

"You know they're looking for you." she warned, "They'll find you here."

"And you know that navy's not your color, darling." Jim said, giving her blue outfit a 'once-over', "I miss the white labcoat."

"I do too." Molly admitted, glancing away when Jim's gaze met hers.

"…I've missed _you."_ He offered, offhandedly, not so that she _wouldn't _believe it but so that she _would, _"You_ knew _I'd be coming back. _For you."_

"For _Sherlock."_ She corrected.

Molly then gave _Jim's _outfit a 'once-over', noting that it was_ also _dark blue.

It was the_ '_Sherlock suit' (as she was now calling it—maybe Jim called it that too now).

Molly knew it was the one Jim wore when confronting Sherlock at the roof and also when confronting Sherlock at the pool, as well (although her knowledge of that was only secondhand) and made sure Jimknew she knew it.

"For the both of you." Jim conceded, "How can you expect me to _choose?"_

"You expected _me_ to." Molly reminded.

"But you _didn't." _Jim reminded, "And neither will _I." _

Molly took a breath.

"What you did…" She began, "…I don't know what you were planning, but I_ tried_ to go along with it—"

"You played your part beautifully." Jim complimented.

He raised a hand, maybe to touch her face or maybe to twist a finger into her hair, but Molly turned away.

"I _hate _being your _pawn."_ Molly told him (or, rather, the tile of the floor she was staring down at) "You never tell me anything."

"I _couldn't_ tell you." Jim corrected, then moving her face back to face him, "…and I didn't think I _needed _to. You understood what I was doing—the meaning of it, at least."

"You acted that way so that I would be sent back to London." Molly guessed, as his fingers danced from her chin down her neck, "So that I would be here too when you came for Sherlock."

Jim retracted his hand before it touched the sturdy and coarse fabric of her uniform rather than her smooth skin.

"All the pieces are in place." he confirmed, "Everything's in order…the perfect time to storm up some _trouble _again, doncha think?"

"What are you going to do?" Molly asked, seriously (keeping the worry from her voice).

"My dear, you know better than to ask me that." Jim dismissed, "I worked _hard_ to put you right back where I found you—despite the slightly different setting." he gestured around at the change of hospital, "Now you're back in London and_ I'm_ back to being a _'danger' _to you—so much so that Mycroft's given you_ protection_ from me _and so,_ in extension, protection from _anybody else_ who might want to harm you. And that's only a _week_ after he was threatening to have you _hurt _to get to me. So far you're _innocent_ in whatever I do, and I want to keep it that way."

"…Why?" Molly questioned, disbelievingly.

As much as _she'd_ tried to keep herself out of Jim's plans, _he'd_ never before wanted her to be uninvolved.

"Because I'll be coming back for you, Molly." Jim informed, in matter-of-fact smugness, "You're right where I want you and I'd like you to be here when I get back."

"You _are_ back." Molly stated.

He was right in front of her—not just her imagination—and close enough to touch…

But Jim just shook his head.

"No," he said, his small smile almost sad and so Molly couldn't tell which half was real _(both? neither?)_, "Not yet."

Still, he kissed her and she kissed him back, there in that empty white hallway, wearing their matching navy-blue work clothes.

* * *

Not wanting to be subjected to the 'unwashed masses' (or _any_ masses for that matter), Mycroft had commandeered the entire first-class longue (normally reserved for those who had actually purchased (first-class) tickets) as his new office space.

And now his (now_ not_ black-suited, but plain-clothed) employees were enjoying the large television screens and free refreshments in the waiting room.

Mycroft, however, had sequestered himself in the conference room to examine Jim Moriarty's cellphone.

**Text Message and Mobile Email Inbox: **

_Mr. M, _

_Care to tell me why my representative was gunned down in the street after he saved Sherlock Holmes? _

_I thought he was under your protection! _

_**# # # #**_

_It was all fake?!_

_You were an actor the whole time!?_

_I want my money back! _

_**# # # #**_

_Dear Mr. Brook,_

_You violated your contract with us by working for Sherlock Holmes as an actor. _

_You are herby terminated. _

_Regrets, _

_The Mountford Agency _

_**# # # #**_

_There is no way your really dead and I dont believe your a fake._

_Where are you hiding, Jim?! _

_**# # # #**_

_Jim/Rich, _

_I don't care WHO you are! _

_You need to come get your clothes out of my house right now or they're going in the garbage! _

—_Kitty _

_PS: I won't kill myself—I just got rich off of your story! The jokes on you now! _

_**# # # #**_

_Moriarty! _

_Sherlock Holmes is NOT a fraud! _

_I know you pushed him off that roof you evil liar! _

_You better not show your face in this town again because I'm coming for you! _

—_J.S. _

_**# # # # **_

_Your keycode keeps popping up every time I try to go onto the internet._

_It is now very difficult for me to watch TV online and download music for free. _

_Please stop spamming us._

_**# # # #  
**_

_You're supposed to be dead._

_So how come I just saw you at the mall the other day? _

_And who was that woman you were with? _

_I thought you were gay…_

_**# # # # **_

_Richard Brooke, _

_Our records show that you used a credit card to pay your hotel bill._

_We haven't yet received our money. _

_The credit card company and the banks state that your accounts have been frozen. _

_Please resolve this matter and pay us or we'll be forced to settle the bill with you in a court of law._

_Also, you are banned from our hotel for life. _

_**# # # #**_

_I know that website is not the real code. _

_Stop messing around with us! _

**# # # # **

_JM—_

_I hired you to have the woman my husband is cheating on me with killed. _

_But since you're just an actor, please put me in contact with your boss Sherlock Holmes. _

_It seems he is competent at committing crimes and I need the help_

_Thank you. _

**# # # #**

_This is a courtesy message from your provider. _

_In light of your recent death, sir, we will be forced to cut off service to this phone within the next week._

_(Normal rates apply.) _

Mycroft set down the phone on the table and looked up when he heard the door click open.

"Your employees are getting lazy out there, Mycroft." Sherlock commented, as he strode into the room (also in street clothes), "You must not being paying them enough."

Mycroft (the only one who refused to leave home without a suit, tie,_ and_ vest on) chuckled.

"They're doing their jobs." He informed, "It would look suspect if this longue was suddenly unoccupied—_or worse,_ filled with mysterious men in blacks suits using strange equipment. Some_ imaginative_ passerby might think we were _spies."_

"God forbid." Sherlock rolled his eyes, then moving on to the subject he came to discuss, "…Have your men located James Moriarty yet?"

He was referring to the older one.

As far as Mycroft knew, Sherlock believed the younger one to be dead.

"No." Mycroft shook his head, "…but he apparently published his keycode on the internet so that I—and anyone else after him—have no reason to peruse him anymore."

"Then why are we wasting our time on this?" Sherlock questioned.

"We're not." Mycroft countered, "Both Moriarty brothers were in contact with probably_ hundreds_ of criminals all over the world. We still need to arrest all of them."

"I don't see why you can't handle that on your own." Sherlock dismissed, "You have enough resources for this job without me.

"'This job' was originally _your _idea, Sherlock." Mycroft reminded.

"No, _my _idea was to apprehend all the criminals that Jim Moriarty had helped." Sherlock corrected, "And I still intend to do that."

"So you can you use them all as witnesses to prove he _existed?"_ Mycroft assumed, "The public isn't going to trust the word of _criminals_ that would say _anything _to place the blame on someone else and receive more lenient sentencing once caught."

"I know that." Sherlock snorted, "And that's_ not_ why I'm doing this."

"Then why _are _you doing this?" Mycroft inquired, wryly adding, "Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"No." Sherlock stated, "I'm doing this so that Jim Moriarty _never_ existed. The lies in the papers are unsustainable, there's too much contrary evidence. I'm going to destroy it—or at least _silence_ it."

"_Why?"_ Mycroft asked, an eyebrow raised, "Do you _want_ to be known to the world as a fraud forever?"

To that, Sherlock just shrugged and left Mycroft to his deductions.

* * *

As soon as Jim exited the hospital, a black town car pulled up to meet him.

But instead of one of Mycroft's black-suited employees, it was Irene that opened the door and ordered him inside.

(She was wearing the white dress she wore on the day she met Sherlock (and (sadly) _not_ the naked 'battle dress'—or else Jim would have had a very _different _'deduction' about the purpose of this pick up.))

Once within the 'safety' of the vehicle, seated next to each other (but not wearing seatbelts) Irene gave Jim a stern look to which he shrugged, grinning sheepishly as the car drove away.

"What did Sherlock tell you, Jim?"

"Sherlock's not the boss of me—and neither are _you,_ 'mummy'."

"You're lucky I had the security footage deleted."

"So Mycroft wouldn't find out about my visit?"

"No, so _Sherlock _wouldn't find out—but I suppose that, too."

"And how'd you do it? A certain _code_ created by a certain _'mutual friend'_ of ours perhaps?"

Irene would have snorted—but that wouldn't have been very _ladylike._

Instead she laughed haughtily rolling her eyes.

"Nothing so complicated as that. _But I do have my ways…" _

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"Details?"

"Sorry, doctor-patient privilege."

"But _you're_ not a doctor."

Irene smirked.

"_He was._ And he 'just happened' to have the keys to the security office."

"And what about the security _officer? _He's not a doctor, too, I presume. There's no confidentiality _there."_

"No, but he was too _blue-collar_ for my taste."

(And Jim suddenly felt self-conscious in his suit.)

"So how _did_ you distract the _peasant,_ then?"

"Why do _you_ want the details so badly?"

Jim sighed, laughing embarrassedly and looking out the window at the passing houses rather than at Irene who examined him in amused suspicion.

"…It's been two weeks, now…I think."

Irene chuckled, smile widening on her face at the realization.

"Oh. You must _really like_ this one then."

Jim shrugged, still not facing her.

"Sort of…I guess…"

"I bet you can turn 'it' off and on like Sherlock can and I've never seen you show an emotion you didn't deliberately contrive…so this must mean you _want_ me to know that you like her, this 'Molly' woman. _Why?"_

"Hey, maybe I'm just trying to impress you. Show you that I've taken your dating advice, '_Dear Irene', _and found myself a little _mirror_ that I can impose myself onto and appreciate what I see of myself in."

Irene scoffed.

"Oh, you know I only said that to get you out of my house."

Jim nodded, laughing.

"_Yeah_…and so maybe I just said what I said to get you off-guard. Make you think I'm 'head over heels' for my darling mouse so you don't notice me pounce on _your_ Sherlock and steal him all for _myself." _

Jim turned towards Irene to smirk, leaning an elbow on the window ledge.

Irene giggled.

"You call her your 'mouse'? That's so cute…But like I told you in America, I don't _want_ Sherlock. I'm only here because he asked for my help and I'd promised I'd give it to him if he ever needed it."

"Well_ I'm_ here to have him. And so it's good to hear you won't be in my way, Miss Adler."

"Of course, _'Mr. Moriarty'_, whatever you say…"

Irene sighed, again rolling her eyes.

He was lying.

About _what,_ she didn't know yet.

(And granted, Irene was not the most _honest_ person herself—which meant that she did know a lie when she heard it slithering off a tongue with the same ease as the truth.)

But Irene _did _know that Jim was always lying about _something_ and so she did _not_ know why Sherlock would ever trust _him_ to help.

Just as they had before, Irene and Jim ascended the stairs onto the darkened second floor of (the 'b' in) 221 Baker Street to find Sherlock sitting his armchair, eyes closed and hands clasped.

Had he just been _sitting there_ all day?!

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked them without opening his eyes or turning to look at them.

His laptop was open on the _unnaturally _uncluttered table beside him.

So he hadn't just been doing _nothing_, then.

(But just what he had been doing was still a mystery since he'd minimized all the running applications leaving only the background in view—_very suspicious.)_

"I was getting my hair cut." Jim lied, "By the way, I like what you've done with yours. Ginger suits you, Sherlock, it's like fire.

He strolled into the room full of boxes, hopping up on the table next to Sherlock (and Sherlock's laptop) to sit down.

The armchair across from Sherlock's _(John's) _now had books stacked onto its seat, too many and too heavy to be convenient to move.

Irene glanced around for a place to sit.

There _were_ chairs at the kitchen table…

…but Irene was a _guest _(and a lady).

Irene stared at Sherlock intently until he finally opened his eyes and looked up at her.

Irene 'ahem-ed', continuing the unrelenting stare until Sherlock rose to get the chair for her.

Once he had, Irene promptly plopped down into his seat.

Sherlock paused to sigh and roll his eyes before bringing the chair in his hands back into the living room and sitting down in it himself.

"Such a _gentleman,_ you are, Sherlock." Jim snarked.

"Oh, he _is,_ isn't he?" Irene grinned, almost _proudly_, turning to Jim and then to Sherlock, "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded once in response, gazing down at the floor.

"Don't try to cover for him." he told her, "I know where you both were this afternoon."

Irene's smile disappeared.

Jim's _grew._

"What gave us away?" he questioned, eagerly, swinging his legs that hung off the table, "How'd you deduce us this time? Bit of fuzz rub off on my jacket from the hospital uniform?—oh wait, they're the same color. Was it the indentation around my neck from the string holding my visitor's pass, then?—oh, that's right, I didn't wear one. So what—"

"The security footage." Sherlock interrupted, "You don't think I have the hospital where John works now under constant surveillance?"

"But _Irene_ had that deleted." Jim stated, emphasizing the name that Sherlock wouldn't (couldn't) yet bring himself to say, tauntingly, "She was _covering_ for me."

Irene glared over at Jim.

"I have a live feed." Sherlock informed.

Jim snorted.

He leaped from the table and then started towards Sherlock.

"So you watch your 'Dear John' all day like his own guardian angel…" Jim considered, "…but why not just go _talk_ to him?"

"Because people don't just come back from the dead." Sherlock reasoned.

"Yes they do." Jim countered, laughing "We're living proof, the three of us."

And Irene had to nod and smile in agreement to that.

Sherlock didn't stir, didn't _speak._

"When do you plan to let John know you're alive?" Irene inquired, "…When I 'died' he didn't_ let_ me keep truth a secret from you. He said he'd tell you if I didn't tell you myself because he saw how my 'death' _affected_ you. And _you're_ a man without emotions, _Mr. Holmes,_ who'd met_ me_ only _once_…think of what the death of a friend would do to someone_ not_ like us. Someone who _feels—"_

"John's a doctor and a soldier." Sherlock reminded, curtly, "I think he can _tolerate_ death."

"Then, why isn't he helping us with this?" Irene questioned, (not adding, 'instead of Jim Moriarty'), "Someone like him would be an_ asset_ to your plans."

"_No,"_ Sherlock countered, "someone like him would get_ killed_ because he isn't already _dead."_

"And just what are these _'plans',_ might I ask?" Jim interjected, glancing back and forth between Sherlock and Irene, "I don't_ like_ taking orders without being given any explanation. What you've told me isn't everything—and I'm not even sure if it's all the _truth."_

"Whatever it is, you'll live with it." Sherlock declared, "…unless, of course, you want me to hand you over to my brother."

"Oh, like you'd ever share _me_ with Mycroft." Jim scoffed, "He'd have a _temper-tantrum_ once he found out you were hiding me right under his _hook nose."_

"He'd forgive me." Sherlock dismissed, "And I _will_ turn you into him if you don't stay away from John _and_ Molly."

"Please, oh please, my lord! _Anything _but _that!"_ Jim begged, exaggeratedly, "Whatever you do _don't _send me to Mycroft! _He's too scary!" _

Finally, Sherlock and Irene's eyes met,_ sympathizing_ after seeing a few seconds of Jim's theatrics.

Unsure of how to react and not wanting to encourage the behavior, they just decided to ignore it.

Which just caused Jim to sulk back to his perch on the table and fold his arms into a pout.

"We have to leave here by tonight." Sherlock told Irene and Jim, "Mrs. Hudson will be returning tomorrow morning."

"Where will we go?" Irene asked, concernedly (she _did_ have a certain standard-of-living she liked to keep).

"I'm working on that." Sherlock answered.

"I've got an idea…" Jim offered, grinning.

Sherlock and Irene turned to him sitting on the table in cautious expectance.

* * *

But because…

...making prank phone calls on hotel phone lines, chasing people on the treadmills of the hotel gym, going into the wrong gender hotel locker-room, ordering hotel room service and then sending it back_—seven times, _breaking into other people's hotel rooms, and impersonating hotel staff...

…could all get one _banned _from a hotel (who would have guessed?!) the 'brain-power trio' had to move into Jim's _back-up_ option for residence.

Molly Hooper's currently unoccupied flat.

It would have to do.

(Jim_ was_ able to settle his _(expensive)_ hotel bill, though—at Irene and Sherlock's expense.)

* * *

Molly lay awake that night in the guestroom of her sister's house.

It was in the process of being converted into the bedroom for the coming baby, already containing a crib in the corner and a few gender-neutral toys and outfits (as Beth and Thomas wanted a 'surprise') still in their packages.

It wasn't on purpose, she _wanted_ to sleep (she did have work the next morning, after all)—she just _couldn't. _

In the dark, Molly felt like a child staring up at the motionless ceiling-fan as if it was a mobile.

If she sat up in bed, she could pull back the curtain and stare out the window.

If she looked down, she would see a black car parked outside, across the street and if she looked up she would see all the stars in the sky on this clear summer night.

But Molly didn't move.

Eyes opened and not sleeping, she was still _dreaming. _

Molly had been _so sure _that Jim would come tonight after seeing him in the hospital that afternoon.

Every creak and sigh the house or the tree branches outside or the wind made, Molly thought (hoped) was him.

Jim would_ never_ miss the chance to sneak past Mycroft's employees and Molly's family members to crawl into bed next to her.

Except he _did._

And he _didn't_ come.

And Molly was alone.

* * *

**sorry about that...**

**basically what i said was something about 'Fox' the American TV channel owned by an Australian company, how it produces the show 'Glee' and how 'see you at the fox' was a sort of reference to that by the writer of the blogs for the 'Sherlock' series (but not by the actual 'Sherlock' creators, who had nothing to do with that). ****  
**

**then i think i said something about june 16th being 'Bloomsday' as in the fictional character Leopold Bloom in 'Ulysses' by an Irish author who's name i knew when writing this originally the first time i posted this chapter but forgot now, and that name 'Leopold' being the reason the blog writer chose june 16 as the day Sherlock died because Jim said 'thank you Johann Sebastian Leopold' instead of 'Bach'.  
**

**if you really have to know, PM me and i'll explain in greater detail.  
**

**right now i'm too lazy and pissed off that this chapter was messed up and i'm still blaming it on the website even though i know i'm probably the one who messed it up myself not understanding how to use the new chapter-uploader.  
**

**grr  
**


	16. On the Job

**MY GOSH!**

**I am SO SORRY this took so long!**

**Again, I have no excuse.**

**This has just been a bad week for me.  
**

**I've been sad and tired for no good reason.  
**

**I wasn't even able to write until Wednesday. Grr. **

**But I did do some drawings (doodles) concering 'The Mouse and the Spider'. **

**I posted them on Deviantart where my username is ImOverThere.**

**I hope ya'll take a look and like them.  
**

**If people do, I can try to draw more...if not, then, oh well...I'll keep writing lol.  
**

**Well, I'd keep writing, anyway.  
**

**I don't ever want to stop.  
**

**It's not a happy day when I can't write.  
**

**It's a very powerless feeling lol.  
**

**Sorry again for taking so long and then taking so long with this ramble. ****  
**

**Thanks to those who reviewed: TheSmilingCat, My Beautiful Ending, lesser mortal, Shay-of-Awe, Missus Gages, TheDayItRayne's, Calicar, Shenanigan, Logical Fallacy (2x), Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat  
**

**If I forgot to reply to anyone I'm also sorry! After I post this, I'm going to check to make sure I did reply to everyone that I could.  
**

**I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! **

**:)  
**

* * *

**Anthea's To-do List for 7/10/12:**

* * *

**0. Government-approved free time **

Anthea smoothed her skirtsuit in front of the mirror and then checked her smartphone (which she slept with and even_ showered_ with—just in case).

Her assignments for the day had just arrived via text from Mycroft and now it was time for her to get to work.

After a final adjustment to her brown hair (worn straight, combed and neatly cut at a feminine yet professional length), Anthea turned and exited the room (the location and details of which are classified, just like her real name).

* * *

Jim woke up with his back aching and his body contorted into an uncomfortable shape.

Molly's couch was fine for quick naps but sleeping the whole night (or any amount of time over two hours) caused Jim intense agony (mild discomfort) when awoke that morning (after rolling off onto the floor twice during the night).

It felt _wrong _to be sleeping on the sofa to begin with…but Irene had annexed the bedroom of the flat (as well as the bathroom, being the only one Jim knew to take a longer time getting ready than him) for herself, locking the door after Jim had told her the bed was big enough for two because she didn't trust Jim to keep his hands to himself (especially now that his pallet had expanded to include women (Molly)).

Jim sat up, stretched, stood up, stretched and then started towards the kitchen, stretching as he walked.

Upon passing the bedroom, Jim saw that the door was now unlocked and open.

Irene was exhibiting herself (sitting normally) on the edge of Molly's bed, wearing the kind of short silk nightgown designed to taunt (straight) men…apparently there was a (straight? gay? asexual?) man there to taunt.

Sherlock stood in the bedroom, looking away from Irene (at a dresser mirror in which she was visible) as they conversed in whispers (not wanting to wake Jim).

"So you two slept together in Molly's bed." Jim commented, stopping to stand in the doorway of the bedroom, "Classy."

"Yes, we slept together—because we were _sleeping."_ Sherlock stated, "And that's_ all_ that happened."

"_Regrettably."_ Irene added, with a sigh, "Sherlock just wanted to avoid staying with his older brother and so he spent the night here."

Sherlock didn't turn to face Jim, still watching the mirror...until Irene's reflection grinned at him.

Then they both looked at Jim who rolled his eyes.

(And he couldn't even make a 'get a room' joke because they were already in a room.)

"You know, Molly and I had sex in that bed." He informed, slyly, "And we didn't change the sheets before we left."

"That's why_ I_ did." Irene returned, matter-of-factly.

"And what did you do, Sherlock?" Jim asked, turning to him, "Deduce what positions we used based on how the blankets were wrinkled or something?"

Sherlock eyed the carpeted floor.

"…I didn't _try_ to." He admitted, "There was obvious wear on certain sections of the sheets from repeated motion as well as the stains…"

He trailed off when he saw Jim and Irene actually eagerly awaiting a detailed description instead of the normal embarrassed or disgusted reaction.

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, Sherlock concluded with, "…not important. Let's just get ready and get to work."

* * *

**1.)** '**interrogate' Molly Hooper (be gentle) **

Molly awoke to her six year old nephew, Matthew, stood at the side of the bed (in his cartoon-themed pajamas) poking his aunt at 5:43 AM.

Since she'd begun her stay at her sister's house, Molly had been waking up at five-thirty so she could be at work at seven—and so Beth and Thomas could sleep in an extra hour and a half.

Living rent-free in their home, sparing them from being woken up before dawn by their young son was the least Molly could do.

"Auntie Molly?" Matthew tried again, to which she finally stirred and sat up.

He called her 'auntie' because he liked how the 'e' sounds in both 'auntie and 'Molly' rhymed at the end, just like nursery-rhymes and the songs in Disney movies.

"Good morning, Matthew." Molly greeted as friendly and brightly as possible (although it came out as a mumble).

"You slept longer." Matthew informed her, "You usually wake up at five-thirty but today_ I_ had to wake you up and it's_ already_ five-forty." _(Heavens! How late!)_

Matthew had been learning to tell-time at his summer daycamp, he could read analog clocks, but only by tens (which was why was incorrect by three minutes—not that it mattered).

All the clocks in the house were analog, sleek and modern like the rest of the furniture and decorations.

(The house itself was big and expensive…and so the furniture was not—which was _good,_ actually, because if broken (which would happen, as there were about to be _two_ children living in there) then things could be easily replaced.)

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized.

"It's okay." Matthew shrugged.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Molly inquired.

Matthew nodded.

Molly was no cook, but she could manage scrambled-eggs and a bowl of (non-sugary) cereal for her nephew.

She was downstairs in the barely-used kitchen (Thomas worked too late for there to be 'family dinners' on any regular basis and Beth grazed on whatever she craved but didn't often actually _cook),_ when there was a knock on the door.

Although it wasn't Molly's front door to answer, Molly turned off the burner on the stove and hurried over to it, Matthew at her heels.

Molly opened the door to see Anthea, checking her phone as she waited to be allowed in.

Molly smiled, politely but confusedly and concernedly, then showing Anthea to a seat in the living room.

Once Matthew was distracted with his breakfast at the kitchen table (with the small television on the counter turned on, even though he wasn't allowed to watch cartoons in the morning), Molly returned to sit across from Anthea.

The coffee was stationed table in-between them and Molly put it to work supporting two mugs of coffee (on coasters, of course), one of which she offered to Anthea (because it was only polite).

"I drink tea." Anthea refused (a bit_ too_ frankly to be polite—and so Molly decided to forgo any further pleasantries).

"What is it?" Molly inquired in a serious (and even slightly annoyed) whisper.

"You know what _'it'_ is." Anthea answered, in an equally serious whisper.

Molly nodded, solemnly.

'it' meant Jim.

But Molly was_ not_ going to say his name, not in this house.

"Did you find him?" Molly asked.

She kept her face and voice neutral, careful to hide the fact that Jim had visited her at work a few days ago in case Anthea (and her employer) didn't already know.

"Not yet." Anthea stated, "…But we will."

"So why _are_ you here?" Molly questioned, sipping her steaming coffee coolly.

Anthea was being purposely_ vague_ and _ominous,_ but it wouldn't work on Molly (—she _had _lived with Jim Moriarty, after all, and _survived_ (for now)).

"For information." Anthea admitted, recognizing that leaving _blanks _in her sentences did not mean that Molly would automatically_ fill_ them in (and smiling because she actually appreciated how Molly was slowly learning how to play this _'game'). _

Molly waited until Anthea spoke again, not volunteering anything _or_ volunteering that she didn't know anything.

"We both know that _he_ will be coming back for you." Anthea reasoned, "I'm here to ask you if he already has."

"I'm still alive." Molly non-answered, setting down the mug onto the table, "He wants to kill me, he already tried at the resort and now he'll be even angrier that I've left him."

"I understand that." Anthea accepted, "That is why you've come to your sister's home. To protect your family from him, as well."

"Yes." Molly confirmed, with a nod, "He knows they live here and he'd know that I'm under your boss's protection. So if I _didn't _stay with them, he'd use them to hurt me…but if he knows where I am, he hasn't done anything."

"Not yet." Anthea repeated.

Molly sighed, returning her cup of coffee to her lips.

"We _also_ both know that Sherlock is more important to him than I ever was." She reminded, "If he does come back to London then it'll be for him, not me."

Anthea sniffed.

She paused, using a sip of coffee (which she didn't normally even drink) from the mug Molly had offered her earlier as an excuse.

Molly raised an eyebrow.

"_Well,"_ Anthea laughed, embarrassedly, putting the cup back down, "…My employer did sort of make a_ deal_with your boyfriend."

"What was it?" Molly asked, feigning ignorance, innocence and surprise.

Anthea laughed again, embarrassedly again, and Molly kept up her 'confused' act even though she knew that the deal was_ not_ funny (and if _Anthea _thought it was, then Mycroft needed choose his employees better).

"As an incentive to get him behave on that island, my employer strongly implied that harm would come to you if he did not." Anthea 'put it lightly', "They agreed that as long as you were alive, your boyfriend would not hurt Sherlock."

"_Ex-_boyfriend." Molly corrected, noticing the term on its second use.

Anthea was _still_ testing her.

And testing her _even more,_ when she didn't immediately respond to the 'revelation' that Mycroft had threatened her life.

Realizing this mistake, Molly quickly continued, "And he obviously didn't make good on that promise, because he attacked me the last time I saw him!"

That was a lie.

The last time Molly had seen Jim, he had done the opposite of attacking her, kissing her instead (and suggesting that they should do more in a locked bathroom, to which Molly refused as 'inappropriate workplace behavior'—she didn't want to risk getting fired her first week on the job if caught).

But as far as Molly knew Anthea knew, what Molly had said was true.

(Of course, Molly didn't know how much Anthea knew, and so was only hoping that Anthea hadn't seen security footage from the new hospital of Jim _not _attacking Molly.)

"Still, it is because of that promise that we are protecting you." Anthea informed, "But if you don't believe that it is _necessary—"_

"I do." Molly interrupted, then irritatedly adding, "…But it doesn't matter what I believe, does it? You and your employer and Sherlock, and _everyone like you—_you all just do whatever you want, you don't take anyone else's feelings into account! You don't care about people like me, I'm just a tool that you use—"

"Please, Miss Hooper, calm down!" Anthea pleaded, standing as soon as Molly began to shout (or as close to shout as Molly ever came).

"Oh god!" Molly hiccupped, in shock at her own outburst, jumping up after Anthea, "I'm so sorry!"

There were tears in the corners of her eyes now.

And those tears convinced Anthea that Molly did not know where Jim was.

"…I can see I've upset you. I apologize." Anthea 'apologized' (insincerely but not sarcastically), "I should go now."

Molly nodded, swallowing.

She walked Anthea to the front door, opened it for her, and let her out.

As soon as Anthea was gone, Matthew ventured from the dinning room to the hallway.

"Who was she?" he inquired, inquisitively.

"A friend." Molly lied, with a nervous smile and a shrug.

"Then why are you crying?" Matthew questioned, disbelievingly.

"Oh, I'm not _really _crying." Molly laughed, wiping the (forced) tears from her eyes, "I was only pretending so I could get her to leave."

Matthew grinned mischievously.

"I pretend to cry too, sometimes, to get what I want." He declared, "It always works on ladies like you and mum and the one who came to the door. Probably because girls cry a lot, too. Even the grown-up ones."

All could do at that statement was Molly smile, desperately hoping that Matthew hadn't overheard (or understood if he did) the conversation between her and Anthea, and that Beth and Thomas hadn't woken up yet.

* * *

**2.) determine the current and previous locations of Sherlock Holmes _(don't _be gentle) **

Sherlock stopped, eyes narrowing in visible frustration and annoyance, when he turned the corner to find a black towncar parked in front of him and Anthea leaning against it, texting as she waited for him.

(She must have tracked the GPS locator on his cellphone.)

"What is it now?" Sherlock groaned.

He was in a hurry.

He'd just left Molly Hooper's apartment building…

(Which Mycroft's employees were watching—but only remotely by the building's own security camera, that footage easily being looped at appropriate times.)

…and was on his way to his next 'job'.

(Sherlock, Irene and Jim had agreed to travel separately as they couldn't risk being seen (or _apprehended)_ together.)

"My employer would like to know your whereabouts last night." Anthea told him, glancing up from her smartphone.

"Why does Mycroft feel the need involve himself in everything I do?" Sherlock snapped, "I don't ask what _he _does in his free time—"

"Mr. Holmes doesn't have _'free time'."_ Anthea corrected, scoffing at the very thought.

"If he was_ really_ so busy then he wouldn't have the time to micromanage my affairs." Sherlock dismissed, "My brother needs a hobby."

"He was worried about you, disappearing all night like that." Anthea countered, "He knows_ you_ have 'hobbies'."

Sherlock snorted.

"Drugtest if you must, but _don't _waste my time." he growled, reaching into his coat pocket to turn off his phone so he could no longer be followed, "…and tell Mycroft I'll be delivering him another criminal to him soon—_if_ he would just stop sending people to_ stalk_ me and let me work in peace."

"I'll inform him of that right now." Anthea stated, then looking down at her phone as she tapped its keyboard.

Sherlock took this as an opportunity to hurry away down the sidewalk while she was distracted.

But Anthea was a quick typist and so before Sherlock had escaped, she was able to call after him, "By the way, my employer expects you home for dinner tonight!"

* * *

Lightrail, and the tube, and even large, heavy locomotives that traveled through London all passed by walls muraled with graffiti.

Names, gang symbols, indecipherable scribbles, secret Chinese codes, even intricate and colorful drawings that could be considered_ art_ were all exhibited to the city, especially to the passengers of these trains who passed by them every day on their way to work.

One of these passengers' name was Molly Hooper.

She boarded in the early mornings (7:15) and sat in the back corner of the traincar, by the window which she gazed out of (as long as it wasn't black and showing her reflection, then she gazed down at her sensible shoes) as the train sped along.

She was like most passengers.

She preferred to be alone and unacknowledged on the train, avoiding any awkward contact with strangers.

Nobody noticed (bothered) her and she tried her best not to notice (bothered) anyone else.

It was quiet in the mornings on the line.

But one morning on the tube someone _spoke_ to Molly.

_No,_ not a _stranger._

And _no,_ not _out loud._

It was just more random graffiti on some random wall she saw twice a day.

Except today it was different.

Today it was _numbers._

Meaningless digits to anyone but someone who already knew them.

All in the yellow paint Molly recognized (just like _Jim _would recognize and would know she would recognize) from one of Sherlock's cases written up on John's blog.

The address to Molly's flat, that day's date, and a time.

She only saw them for a brief moment but she checked the numbers again on her way home from work that evening.

And then she was sure.

_Her flat._

_7/10/12_

_21:00_

Jim wanted to meet Molly nine o' clock that night at her place and she would be there.

* * *

**3.) Make a Court _Dis_appearance **

Upon accepting the job at the military contracting company, Lestrade had been given the (a little embarrassing—at least to a former Detective Inspector) assignment of being a courthouse security guard.

It was only _temporary,_ of course, just a trial period to see if Lestrade could be _trusted._

And Lestrade was not going to complain because in addition to getting paid, the reason that the courthouse needed extra security was because the trial of the 'terrorist bomber' Sebastian Moran was currently occurring.

After keeping the swarming media out of the building, Lestrade was able to sit in (stand, actually, in the back of the courtroom) on the trail.

He watched in boredom and shock as Moran plead guilty and confessed to the crimes on the stand, avoiding all the _drama_ of the prosecution presenting evidence and making arguments.

Lestrade wished he had let the reporters in, just so they could be disappointed by the quick and uneventful event.

The only benefit Lestrade gained from watching the trial was hearing Moran state that "James Moriarty paid me to blow up those buildings", confirming his and John's suspicion that Moran was working for the _un_dead criminal and that all the explosions around the city were meant to distract the police and the public while Moriarty escaped.

Once Moran had been marched away in handcuffs, _presumably_ to spend the rest of his life in a military prison, Lestrade patrolled the hallways of the courthouse wondering what to do next.

_Another _of his and John's leads to figuring out what happened to and with Jim Moriarty had just conveniently disappeared.

If Moran hadn't used the name 'Moriarty', then Lestrade would have assumed Moriarty had paid Moran to admit guilt as well.

Just as Lestrade thought he at a dead end again (which he _was—_lost in thought he had taken a wrong turn and was now staring at a wall), he turned around to see the same woman that had arrested Moran striding down the corridor towards the holding cells.

According to John, she worked for Mycroft Holmes and her 'name' was (not really) 'Anthea'.

She was managing not to bump into anything or anyone despite texting and walking at the same time and because she was so conveniently distracted by her phone, Lestrade thought he could 'just happen' to go the same way she did while on patrol (follow her).

That didn't work, though, of course and halfway to the holding cells, Anthea turned around to face Lestrade, giving him a questioning look.

(She must have seen him in the reflection on her phone or something.)

"May I help you, sir?" She asked.

"I know you work for Mycroft Holmes." Lestrade declared.

He felt bad for sounding angrier than he'd intended to, but all secrets and cover-ups were really starting to annoy him.

"…okay?" Anthea replied, looking up from the smartphone to raise an eyebrow.

"Well, John Watson and I have been trying to get a hold of him for almost three weeks now." Lestrade explained, "He won't return our calls and we can't find him at any of his offices. We need to talk to him, it's very important."

"You should have just called me." Anthea said, as if that option had been available and obvious (which it was not as neither Lestrade nor John had Anthea's number) "I can schedule you and Doctor Watson an appointment to see him. Is tomorrow alright?

"…Yes, it is..." Lestrade responded.

"Good, then." Anthea smiled, giving her phone a final click, "Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Lestrade, I have work to do and so do you, it seems."

She turned and continued on her way, leaving Lestrade standing in the hall watching her go (and_ definitely_ not checking out her swaying form in a skirt and high heel _at all) _and blinking in surprise at how _easy _that was.

_Too_ easy…

(And just_ how_ had she known his name, anyway?!)

* * *

There was an inn and pub on the street corner (of street full of many other similar and similarly cheap and seedy establishments) so small and nondescript that nobody realized that a few months ago it had gone out of business upon being mysteriously and anonymously bought.

Nothing replaced this inn and to the outside world it seemed as if the pint_(ha, ha)-_sized building sat empty and unoccupied as there were no longer any guests or customers coming in and out.

But why, then, did the employees_ not_ lose their jobs and instead continued to arrive everyday (or every_night, _depending on the shift) for work?

Nobody thought to ask _that._

Nobody _even noticed. _

Nobody _except_ Sherlock Holmes, Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler.

They stood on the sidewalk in front of the brick building, savoring the moment just before they begun their first 'mission' together…

…_by arguing. _

"Just a warning, I'm going to need you two out of the flat tonight." Jim announced.

"And why is that?" Irene inquired, suspiciously.

"I'm having someone over." Jim answered, as smugly as a teenage girl flaunting her first boyfriend.

"No, you're not." Sherlock declared, "You know Molly is watched wherever she goes. You'll compromise us all if you see her, especially in her own home which we've made into our 'headquarters'."

"How do you know it was _her_ I'm planning to see?" Jim tried, "I didn't even say it _was _a _'her'." _

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course it's Molly, if it were anyone else you'd see them at another location." He reasoned.

"Well, I'll take her to another location, then." Jim offered.

"You know that my brother has Molly monitored at all times." Sherlock stated, "And _I _know that you do this sort of thing intentionally to annoy me."

"Me? Never!" Jim exclaimed in offended (and affected) innocence,_ "You _just try to keep me away from Molly because you're all sour that you can't see John and don't want anyone else to be happy if you can't be."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but Irene spoke first.

"Both of you stop." She commanded, "We have work to do, _remember? _You can bicker like children later."

"Oh_, alright,_ mum." Jim sighed exaggeratedly.

"If I recall, you go in first on this one." Sherlock responded, turning to Irene.

"Yes." She affirmed, "…but can I really risk leaving you two alone together?"

She looked skeptically at Sherlock who scoffed.

"Ask him." he redirected, glancing over at Jim.

Irene turned to Jim, her eyes giving him the stern warning of a mother.

"Can you behave yourselves without me to 'chaperone'?" she asked.

"I'm sure we'll manage." Jim feigned, dismissively.

"Good." Irene accepted.

But as soon as she had entered the inn she was certain she could hear the muffled voices of Sherlock and Jim arguing outside.

The tiny 'lobby' (if it could even be called that) of the inn was just big enough to fit the front desk, two wooden chairs on either side of the hall-sized 'room' and two doors, one of which led to the stairwell and the other of which led to what used to be what was probably the world's smallest and world's worst 'restaurant' (if it could have even been called that).

Irene dinged the dingy bell on the desk and waited until she heard footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

Out of the door emerged a muscular man in 'uniform' (but, of course, this inn's employees had never worn uniforms) who Irene immediately identified as a professional bodyguard instead of an inn employee.

She smiled.

"You must be the escort Mr. Gordon ordered." The bodyguard identified, "Marie Devine?"

"Yes." Irene confirmed, nodding.

(She, Sherlock and Jim had intercepted the phone call that afternoon.)

"Follow me." the bodyguard said.

And so Irene followed him back through the door he'd come, up the stairs and past several vacant rooms on vacant floors until they reached the 'penthouse' (if it could even be called that).

The top floor of the building's small rooms had had some of their brick walls knocked down to form a few big rooms that _weren't_ full of cheap furniture or completely empty like the rest of the inn but stocked to resemble the fancy New York home of the ex-stocktrader that occupied it.

After the bodyguard had checked Irene's purse and person (no weapons), he allowed her onto this floor alone where she found Douglas Gordon fully dressed in suit and tie sitting at a dinner table with a dinner ready.

But from the looks of the room (cleaned and tidied up by staff but still very obviously _lived in) _Gordon probably spent most of his days in bed in his pajamas watching his large flatscreen television (across from the only recently made bed, remote on the nightstand) and reading the newspapers that were stacked on the dresser (a pile tall enough to indicate over two week's worth of publications).

Even the table Gordon sat at, by the window (with railing around its balcony that was too small to actually walk onto and was actually just bars meant to block intruders from breaking in), had only been brought into the room today because he was having company (it may have been table-clothed and set, but it was only a metal folding table underneath).

"Good evening, Mr. Gordon." Irene greeted, starting towards him.

He admired her red dress (or, perhaps, the features that it really should have done more to _confine),_ smiling approvingly before speaking.

"Please, call me Douglas." Gordon allowed in his American accent, very New England(—came from money) with a practiced edge of _Boston_ (instead of one of the New York boroughs(—folksy, one of the boys, but_ never_ lowclass)) and not even a hint of English picked up despite living in the country for months now.

"As you wish, _Douglas." _Irene purred, and then extending a wrist delicately for him to shake.

Instead, Gordon (still seated in his chair) turned, took her hand and kissed it (because that's what British people do and he was trying to be culturally-sensitive).

"My lady." He said (because that's what British people say and he was trying to be culturally-sensitive).

"Oh, there's no need, I'm not royalty." Irene laughed, "You may call me Marie."

"Marie." Gordon tested, releasing her hand to gesture to the seat across from him, "Please, sit down."

Irene sat across from him, _'admiring'_ the takeaway that had been so skillfully presented on the square plates as if it had been cooked in the inn.

Gordon must have been a very lonely man pay to 'have dinner' with a woman he thought was a prostitute and_ actually_ have dinner with her.

Marie Devine did charge by the hour—and she was not cheap.

(No, she wasn't even_ real.) _

"Lovely meal." Irene commented, waiting for Gordon to start eating before daintily picking up her fork and pushing the small cube of meat and strands of vegetables around her plate.

(But there was no wine or any kind of alcoholic beverage to be seen—the man must have once been an alcoholic, then, and didn't want to 'fall back off the wagon' even while in hiding (even while_ 'dead') _by 'drowning his sorrows'—and it must have been a sorry existence indeed to confine one's life to a single building, a single room.)

"You know who I am, right?" Gordon assumed, finally venturing out of pleasantries and getting to the point.

"Yes, Douglas, I do." Irene confirmed, "I'm an educated woman of class."

(Although normally an 'educated woman of class' wouldn't need to state it so overtly—but it was for a job and so Irene_ debased_ herself with such an advertisement.)

"I can see that." Gordon grinned, "I only ever hire classy, educated ones—they're cleaner…and prettier, too."

"Don't forget more expensive." Irene added.

"The best things in life always are." Gordon stated, "…And I still can't get over the fact that it's _legal_ here. I love this country already."

"Can't be the only reason you chose England for your 'afterlife', though, can it?" Irene assumed, "There are more _scenic _places to run away to, places with more sunlight—and less _extradition."_

"I'm _dead."_ Gordon reminded, "Nobody's looking for me."

"Then why are you _hiding?"_ Irene inquired, "Cooped up in this hotel room, don't you ever get _bored?_ Come out and explore the city."

"I chose London because it was the closest thing to New York." Gordon admitted, with an embarrassed laugh, "I never thought it would make me so… _homesick."_

"You miss your family." Irene 'deduced', "Do they know?"

"_No..."_ Gordon shook his head down at his plate and then looked up at her, "…Don't look at me that way. It's not_ all_ cruel and selfish that I faked my own death and escaped with millions…people were overjoyed when they heard I was dead. They thought I deserved it. Me in cushy 'club fed' for a couple years wouldn't have satisfied them. But my 'body' washing up under the Coney Island boardwalk did…And as for my family, I would've left them with nothing had I just gone to prison—now they get my life-insurance payout to live comfortably on without all the stress and scandal my trial would have brought into their lives."

"Ah, so there _is_ a bit of_ charity_ in the capitalist, after all." Irene smiled.

And so Gordon smiled, too.

"As long as I can take it off my taxes." He joked (even though he wasn't actually paying any taxes at the time because he was dead in the United States and didn't exist in the United Kingdom).

But Irene laughed anyway (and it was more than just_ polite_ because wasn't like_ she_ paid taxes in either of those countries, either).

"…you said they found your 'body', Douglas." She began, changing the subject, "How did you manage that? Did you arrange it or did you have _help?_ You can't have been able to fake your death and flee America all by yourself?"

"You sure ask a lot of questions." Gordon commented, guardedly yet shrugging it off with a laugh and a point of his steak-knife.

"I'm an educated woman of class." Irene repeated, "I crave knowledge like I crave more _carnal _things."

Finally, she bit into a piece of red meat.

_Yes,_ Irene was 'playing it up' as the '_femme fatale'_…but Gordon was _'eating _it up'.

(He probably wouldn't have bought it, though, if she weren't British.)

"Well, at least I know you're not a reporter." Gordon sighed, "A pretty woman like you wouldn't have wasted your time _writing." _

(Being a financial worker, Gordon had never appreciated the beauty of the written word, preferring the straight-forward and yet complex universality of numbers.)

"Actually, Mr. Gordon, I'm a dominatrix." Irene revealed.

Gordon set down his silverware onto his plate with a clink, blinking at her in surprise and mild discomfort.

"…um, I didn't order a _dominatrix_..." He informed, eyeing Irene awkwardly, "…I'm not really into that whole 'chains and whips' thing, I'm sorry to say. Had a couple bosses that were, though, back in day…"

"It doesn't_ have _to be 'chains and whips'." Irene dismissed, "It's just giving up control. High-powered positions come with high-_stress._ Sometimes even the most powerful men need a release. _I_ am that release. A dominatrix makes all the problems in your life no longer_ your_ responsibility, if only just for a few hours, and so allows you to escape. I can set you _free."_

"No thanks." Gordon refused (politely enough), "I'll just stick to sex, please, if you don't mind. I haven't seen my wife in five months and she thinks I'm dead—plus, she was getting kinda _old,_ anyway. And I don't date but I'm nice enough to give the hookers dinner whenever they come over, in addition to their fee, because I like to have an real conversation too, once in a while. If you're not interested in that, I'll pay you for your time, Miss Devine and you can be on your way."

He stood up to reach into his pocket for his wallet.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Gordon." Irene assured, motioning for him to sit back down, "I'd like to continue this conversation, actually—at least until my associates arrive."

"Your _what?!" _Gordon demanded, _not_ sitting down, "Who the hell are you, lady?!"

"Not _'lady'."_ Irene corrected_, "Woman._ The Woman."

(But as an American, Gordon didn't know about the local scandals that Irene had been involved with before 'dying' and so the name 'The Woman' meant nothing to him.)

"I have bodyguards." Gordon warned.

"Of course you do." Irene chuckled, flipping her brown hair back, "Who do you think my associates are 'taking care of' right now while I distract you?"

"…Damn it." Gordon cursed.

Impulsively, he grabbed the steak-knife from his plate then pointing it towards Irene.

She stood.

"Shame on you man, treating a woman like a piece of meat." She chastised, "…but you're a white-collar criminal, _'Douglas'. _You wouldn't do it—you _couldn't _do it."

With a single finger, Irene lowered the knife in Gordon's hand back down onto his place.

"_There."_ She continued, her voice sinisterly soothing, "Now just sit back down and relax, Mr. Gordon. Give up control. _Be free."_

Sighing, Gordon sunk into his seat, arms hanging limp by his sides and eyes staring into space.

Irene Adler was very good at her job.

She sat down, smiling contentedly at her 'client' and together they waited at the table until Sherlock and Jim strolled through the hall door from the stairwell.

"_See,_ the man _is_ a recovered alcoholic." Sherlock told Jim, instantly as he glanced around the room "I was right."

"_No,_ he's hiding the booze in here somewhere." Jim countered, scanning the all the furniture for possible secret stashes of alcohol, "I know_ I_ would've started drinking again if I was trapped in the same room all day, all alone. He might as well've gone to prison back in America, heard it's pretty comfortable there as long as you steal over a million dollars."

"You again!" Gordon exclaimed, upon seeing Jim, "You killed my secretary!"

"I also 'screwed' your 'assistant' and 'spilled' your 'best liquor', too." Jim recounted, quoting a text message he'd once received.

He started to pace around the room, bending to check under the bed and then the dresser, and then even the table, for hidden alcohol.

"Well, I think _murder _is a little more serious!" Gordon retorted, annoyed that his stuff was being rooted through but too cautious to actually do anything about it.

"Oh, look at you pretending to care about women." Jim chuckled, "You must still be trying to impress the 'prostitute'."

"_Dominatrix."_ Irene specified.

"I have _money,_ I don't _need _to pretend to care about women." Gordon scoffed, "That's the Democrats' job, anyway."

Irene, Jim and Sherlock stared blankly at Gordon, being British they did not know what a 'Democrat' was.

"He wasn't sleeping with the secretary." Irene informed Jim, reasoning that if Gordon didn't approve of writers or reporters, he probably wasn't attracted to secretary (even if she was 'an educated woman of class'—which this particular secretary (rest her soul) was _not)._

"I know that." Jim snickered, stopping his search to turn to Irene who stood across from Gordon, "But she _was _sleeping with his protégé—the one who took the fall for the embezzling and insider-trading once good old Gordo 'died'. You should have seen his face when he came home to find me in bed with his little guidette. He was _so angry_ he went from orange to red—until I taught him how to _'diversify' _and _'raised' _his_ 'interest'." _

"I did _not _need to know that." Gordon muttered, feeling the urge to vomit his dinner out the barred-window.

"The idiot American police weren't aware of the relationship." Sherlock added, stepping further into the brick-walled room, "They thought Gordon and the assistant were having an affair and so blamed her for his murder once_ I_ found that she'dbeen the one to transfer the money out of the US. And then they pinned _her_ murder on _her_ real lover, in addition to the financial crimes they were already charging him with. I told them that he didn't kill her but they didn't investigate the matter because I couldn't come up with any other suspects."

"You weren't really trying, though, were you, Sherlock?" Jim teased, "The only reason you even took that case was to chase Irene to the new world."

Sherlock didn't respond to this and so Gordon took the opportunity to interject with, "What do you all want from me, anyway? If it's _money,_ I can pay you three to leave."

"Yes, we will want access to your finances." Irene confirmed, "But we also came here to tell you something."

"Tell me _what?"_ Gordon questioned, looking at Irene, Sherlock and Jim in turn.

"I'm an actor." Jim declared, "Richard Brooke."

"No, you're not." Gordon snorted.

"You _have_ read the papers." Irene noted, gesturing to the pile on the dressers, "I know you've heard the story."

"That doesn't mean I _believe_ it." Gordon dismissed, "I mean, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal said I was dead. Didn't make it _true._ Anybody can be bought."

"Like _me."_ Jim agreed, then pointing at Sherlock_, "He_ bought me. Sherlock Holmes_ paid_ me to be Moriarty."

"Have you forgotten which _'mutual friend'_ introduced us, _'Mr. Moriarty'?"_ Gordon reminded.

"…oh, right…James…" Jim groaned.

"So we're allowed to say his name now?" Gordon checked, taken aback.

"You read the newspapers." Irene reiterated, "You know he's fled the country and his best employee has been arrested for blowing up three buildings. There's no point in protecting his identity anymore."

"Then_ why_ are you all trying to convince me that Jim Moriarty is an actor Sherlock Holmes paid?" Gordon asked, "Most of the people in this city _already _believe that and it doesn't matter what I believe because I'm 'dead' and even if I _wasn't,_ I _still _couldn't tell anyone Moriarty is real because I was one of this _clients!"_

"And that's exactly why were here." Irene explained, "Not only have you see Jim's face and know his name, but you also know who his brother is. We can't have you reveal that to anyone."

"There's no one for me to reveal it _to!"_ Gordon cried, already exasperated and throwing his hands up in the air, "Nobody else but you three, my bodyguards, the staff here and James Moriarty even know I'm alive!"

"You're wrong." Sherlock stated, "Two very powerful men, both with almost unlimited money and manpower, have seen Jim Moriarty's phone and so all the information on it—including his client list. Now you _will_ be getting a 'visit' from at least one of these men's employees and when that happens you are to maintain that _Jim_ Moriarty is dead and that you have no idea where_ James_ Moriarty is."

"I would have done that anyway—in fact I actually thought Jim was dead and really don't know where James is." Gordon told him, "…and what does that have do with the whole 'Richard Brook' thing?"

Sherlock sighed.

"There will also come a time when someone—maybe from the _media,_ maybe _independently_—will find out about you and will come here looking for answers." He continued, "And when _that _happens, _then_ you will tell them that that Richard Brook was an actor I paid to be Moriarty and that _I _am a fraud. Do you understand, Mr. Gordon?"

"I do…" Gordon nodded, "…but why? Why do you want everyone to think you're fake?"

"Why do_ you_ want everyone to think _you're_ dead?" Sherlock returned.

"To keep myself out of prison?" Gordon shrugged.

Sherlock shrugged back.

"I suppose that answers your question, then." He said.

"No, actually…" Gordon disagreed, "…it _doesn't." _

But Sherlock pretended not to hear him, already starting back out the door and down the stairs.

Jim glanced at the door and then at the room, wondering whether to follow Sherlock or stay behind with Irene.

"I think what he means is that he wants to escape the problems of his identity and start anew." Irene interpreted, patting Gordon on the shoulder, "Just like you."

"He gave up control and let himself be beaten—metaphorically—by the dominatrix of public opinion so that he can be free?" Gordon guessed, "Is that what you're saying?"

"See," Irene smiled, "It isn't all about 'chains and whips', after all."

"_Hmm,_ well, maybe I would like to try this submission thing…" Gordon considered, scratching his chin in thought, "You still up for it, Miss Devine?"

"I'm sorry but I'm not actually practicing at the moment." Irene apologized, "I have _different _job now…but you're still going to have to pay me."

"_Pay_ you?!" Gordon snapped, "For what? You didn't provide me any services!"

"I let you stay dead and stay out of captivity." Irene countered, "You're the first of many my associates and I will be attending to, and you're the lucky one. All we want is your money and your silence. Most of the others will lose_ more_ than just their savings and their voice."

"I think what she means is that they'll be dead." Jim interpreted, in a stage-whisper to Gordon, parroting Irene's earlier statement.

"…yeah, I got that." Gordon confirmed, to which Jim _also_ patted him on the shoulder and smiled.

* * *

**4.) 'And ****let slip the _dog_ of war' (Sebastian Moran) **

The last time Moran had been inside the courthouse holding cell had been when he'd _dis_obeyed his employer's (half-hearted and under-duress) orders to kill Jim Moriarty.

Moran had regretted not doing it at the time and he regretted it now that he sat in the very same metal cell himself, a prisoner.

It was very dark and Moran felt very stupid.

He _hated _just _sitting there,_ he _needed_ to _do something._

And Moran even might have s_ympathized_ with Jim's restless antics—except for the fact that they had the same hunger for action.

If he was able to control himself, then Jim should have been able to as well.

Jim's hedonism _disgusted _Moran and he really, really, really should have killed Jim when he had the chance.

(And_ so what_ if James had changed his mind and fired him? _Oh well._ James would have been better off with Jim dead and so would the _entire world!—Besides,_ Moran just plain _didn't like_ Jim. _More_ than he didn't like most people._)_

Next time, Moran vowed, he _would_ kill Jim.

Just as Moran was debating whether to do push-ups or jog in place within the cell _(anything_ was better than being _motionless), _he heard the clicking of high-heels on the concrete floor outside.

_Anthea. _

Moran stood.

The heavy door creaked open, allowing light and Anthea in from the hall.

"Mr. Moran." She greeted, evenly, as she appreciated the orange prison uniform (or, perhaps, the features that it really should have done more to _confine) _wore.

Moran rolled down the baggy sleeves to cover his arms and re-buttoned the jumpsuit all the way up.

They hadn't made Jim wear a uniform in prison and so if Anthea was going to punish him by making him wear it, he was going to punish her by actually wearing it.

"Brunette." Moran greeted, curtly, because he didn't know Anthea's real name and kept mistaking her fake name for 'Athena', "…I was beginning to think the life sentence they gave me was for real."

Anthea rolled her eyes.

"You've only been in here forty-three minutes." She informed.

"Really?" Moran raised an eyebrow (only very slightly), shrugging, "Felt longer."

"But your life sentence is 'for real'." Anthea stated, "You just won't be spending it in a jail cell."

"No, I'll be spending it doing 'community service'." Moran chuckled, then adding, completely seriously, "…So who do you want me to kill first?"

"Jim Moriarty." Anthea said.

* * *

**The alias 'Marie Devine' was (you guessed it!) a Wikipedia-grab from a Sherlock Holmes story. Something about a missing old woman with a funny name. I forget. I'd check my browsing history but I'm in a hurry to post this. ****  
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**And I'm about as creative with stock characters as I am with names. ****  
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**That's why Douglas Gordon was almost blatantly Gordon Gekko from 'Wall Street' played by Michael Douglas.  
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**I should've actually watched the movie-but the Wikipedia article was _almost_ as good.  
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**He was this close to being...someone else...but then I came to my senses and decided that writing is my life and politics is just a hobby.  
**

**My priorities are totally in order and I'm completely stable.****  
**

**I just had felt bad for awhile about all the gay and Muslim jokes I had made in 'The Mouse and the Spider' that my liberal guilt kicked in so I started slinging rocks at goliaths in apology.  
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**If you didn't notice, I'm glad.  
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**If it bothered or offended anyone I'm sorry.  
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**Or maybe I'm the only one being hyper-sensetive here.  
**

**I need sunlight back in my life.  
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**(Literally-it's been cloudy here for weeks it seems.)  
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**But until the clouds clear up can I bask in some reviews?  
**


	17. Untrue Love

**Hi, everyone! **

**I'd apologize for this taking so long but I've already done that enough and I've got something else to apologize about this time.  
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**Somehow chapter 15 got replaced by chapter 16 so it was two chapter 16s in a row.  
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**This may have caused some people to miss chapter 15 and think chapter 16 was repost.**

** I'm sorry.  
**

**Thank you to FlyingPigMonkey who called this to my attention.  
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**I don't know how this happened.  
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**I like to pretend it was because NewsCorp was so infuriated by what I said that they hacked the website to delete the chapter...but I know that it was probably just me messing up while trying to use the new document uploader lol.****  
**

**Thanks to reviewers: FlyingPigMonkey, TheDayItRayne's, Shay-of-Awe, Shenanigan, The Obessionist, lesser mortal, Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat, ken kesey (btw I love all the different author names you use. it's so funny that I've actually never read any of those writers even though they used to taught in high schools. I wonder if that's a regional thing or a generational one...)****  
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**Guys, I'm nervous about this chapter but I always am lol.  
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**I hope you all like it!  
**

* * *

Molly was early.

It was better than being late and if Jim didn't come on time she would wait.

It _was_ her flat, after all. She could stay there all night if she wanted to.

And even the men in black suits who'd been following her (discreetly—or so they _thought,_ in the traincar after hers and ten steps behind her on the street) wherever she went for the past few weeks didn't follow her into the apartment building, not wanting to be noticed (_too late). _

As she climbed the stairs up to her floor, Molly assured herself that Jim would take whatever precautions necessary not to be caught when meeting her here.

He wouldn't have chosen this location if it wasn't safe…_unless_ getting arrested was _another_ one of his plans he didn't bother telling her about.

It was just before eight-thirty at night when Molly reached her flat (which she hadn't been back to since returning to London (because of Jim not explaining his plan to her in advance)).

After fumbling with her keys, she opened the front door and entered the unlit hall.

That's when she noticed the silhouette standing before her; _familiar_—but too tall.

"Hello, Molly." Greeted its voice; _familiar_—but too deep.

"…Sherlock." Molly gasped.

And Sherlock Holmes stepped from the shadows towards her.

* * *

It felt good to be back in London.

After years of wandering the world _('homeless'_; playing mildly interesting games with mildly interesting people for no reason other than to keep himself from getting bored), Jim had finally been allowed to come back to play with Sherlock Holmes.

Jim had been such a _good little boy_ lately that James (incorrectly) believed that he'd matured out of his perpetual-adolescent behavior.

_Sherlock _had.

(Jim had (anonymously and remotely) hired a private-detective in London to send him pictures and information about Sherlock Holmes (by archaic 'snailmail' at first (international postage incredibly expensive and _so slow)_ and then via the godsent internet (Sherlock attributing being followed to another one of Mycroft's employees.))

After years of wandering the city (homeless; doing experiments on everything and everyone—even himself for no reason other to keep himself from getting bored), Sherlock had finally started putting his talents to _work._

An arrest (no charges were ever filed) had led to some Detective Inspector (named Lester or something) discovering Sherlock's genius and asking for his help.

Sherlock had then progressed from solving cold cases by flipping through dusty files to investigating crimes in person and in real-time.

It was a _job._

It even _paid _(although Sherlock didn't want or need the money, he just wanted _something to do). _

He called himself a 'Consulting Detective' (the only one in the world, in fact).

And Jim was impressed—so impressed that he was inspired to _invent_ a job himself.

'Consulting _Criminal'. _

If the 'good guys' had a genius on their side, it was _only fair_ the 'bad guys' had one too.

It was all a matter of _balance _(—which needed to be restored in order for Jim to destroy it).

James had hired some random cab driver (Jim didn't even bother learning his name) to get Sherlock's attention and interact with him on behalf of Jim (protecting the name so cherished that it was unchangeable—at least to James).

Jim was going along with that…for now.

He was only allowed back in London by James under the condition that Sherlock Holmes not know either of their identities.

And _right now_ there was nothing he could do about it.

Since James currently was the only one of them with resources (money, connections ('friends')) in the city Jim had to follow his rules—at least until he established himself (in criminal underground).

Then he could do whatever he wanted and James could go cry.

But Jim was bored.

He was tired of waiting for Sherlock to notice the terminally-ill cabbie on a killing spree and _do something_ about it.

What was taking him so long?

The private-detective had informed Jim that Sherlock had been distracted by a dispute with his landlord, eventually ending in him getting evicted.

Once sherlock had moved out, Jim moved right in to the flat, which was rented at such a low rate due to the lingering smells, scorch marks, and bullet holes.

Still, Jim wasn't about to ask James for money and so he had to get a_ real_ job.

He wasn't sure what it would be yet, but he knew he'd figure something out.

Today, Jim was just passing the time with the usual stuff.

_Stalking Sherlock. _

It was so easy to follow Sherlock—not because he didn't notice (he (almost) always did) but because (despite being a genius worthy of godhood) he was still a _nobody._

And so nobody (important) was interested in his activities except his big brother, a fat and lazy old man named Mycroft (what was up with the Holmeses and strange first names, anyway?) that Jim's private-detective had never been able to get a picture of.

He worked for the government or something like that. Nothing important, nobody to worry about.

But_ Jim_ was interested in Sherlock.

Jim was still a _nobody_, too (thanks to James) but he was going to get himself and Sherlock the attention (worship or scorn?) they deserved from the world—_and from each other._

_Not yet,_ though.

Not now.

_Now _Sherlock was beating a corpse with a riding-crop (for a case...or for _fun?) _from what Jim could see as he casually passed the window into one of the morgue's workrooms.

He'd been pacing back and forth down the hallway as if he was lost (in the hospital _or _in thought) to pass by this window (at relatively slow and cautious intervals so as not to be noticed) and watch Sherlock.

After strolling down to end of the dim corridor, Jim turned to see a woman in a white labcoat entering the room Sherlock was in (after a few seconds of staring into the window, cringing in confusion).

Jim hurried back to the window, arriving just in time to see (and hear, as the windows were cracked open at the top) the woman ask Sherlock to have coffee with her.

She'd even 'refreshed' her lipstick for him.

_The bitch! _

How_ dare_ she try to steal Jim's man?!

Just _who_ did she think she was?!

(Besides, Sherlock was totally gay anyway (the way he wore his scarf, the tight button-downs—Jim knew clothing and he knew gay) Could the poor girl _really_ not tell a gay man when she saw one?)

Jim ducked, leaning against the white wall under the windows to continue listening.

He had to choke on his own muffled laughter when Sherlock (who was still a virgin, according to the private-detective) misinterpreted the woman's offer for sex (well, that _was_ the point of dating, wasn't it?) as an offer to bring him coffee.

Black, two sugars and Sherlock had even said _'please'._

_Adorable. _

…but it wasn't like this man-stealing woman was _actually _going to do what he asked, _right?_

Once she'd been rejected—_rightfully _(as she was unworthy of Sherlock's genius (and his penis))—she'd be too offended and embarrassed to ever even speak to Sherlock again.

Any woman would be.

(So sensitive, they were, so emotional…she'd probably _go cry_ at her failed plan—just like James.)

But then Jim heard it.

_The word. _

The one tiny word spoken—no, _squeaked_ by the woman after Sherlock had strode majestically out of the morgue.

"…okay."

And so Jim stared as this mousy little morgue employee scurried out of her workroom towards the breakroom with the coffee-maker so quickly that she didn't even notice him sitting there.

_How pathetic,_ Jim thought, this woman had a schoolgirl crush on Sherlock so strong that she was completely oblivious to and undeterred by his rejection and was still trying to get him to like her.

But despite snorting in the mixture of disgust and pity that only Jim could find so humorous at the woman, he _did _have to admit that one thing actually impressed him about her.

She saw Sherlock for the god he was and she worshipped him like she should have.

_Good girl. _

The woman was a _fellow fan_ of Sherlock—a fellow fan, but not any 'competition', _not_ an equal.

_Jim Moriarty _was Sherlock Holmes's only equal.

The only one Sherlock would ever (eventually) care about (once he formally introduced himself, of course)…

…or so Jim _thought._

Jim had been following Sherlock all day.

He _should_ have been there to watch the _spontaneous combustion_ of friendship that occurred when Mike Stanford introduced an ex-army doctor named John Watson to consulting detective Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

He _should_ have been there to _stop _it, to take John's place himself and make a _friend_ instead of an_ enemy_ (or at least a 'frenemy').

_He should have been there. _

And he_ would_ have been, too…

…if he hadn't been on the breakroom's computer researching everything there was to know about the woman from the morgue who'd brought Sherlock Holmes a cup coffee.

* * *

"Expecting someone else?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow ever-so slightly (not because he had any more knowledge than she did about this particular situation—no, in fact, he had _less_—but because he was _Sherlock Holmes_ and he wanted to make sure she knew he was_ smarter_ than her).

"No." Molly said.

—_lied. _

Lied to Sherlock.

_Again. _

"Good." Sherlock accepted, "Because I wanted to speak with you, in private and without interruption."

He moved to stand in front of her, deliberately and uncomfortably close and looming over her in the dark hallway.

Once Molly would have wanted this closeness from Sherlock, but now she knew it was meant to intimidate her, make her nervous and vulnerable so that he could get whatever it was he wanted from her.

It was unnerving, both because of her guilt_ and_ because once it would have been _Jim_ standing there in Sherlock's place, trying to scare her.

Molly realized that she wasn't the only one who'd changed—_for the worse_—because of Jim Moriarty.

She took a breath, catching and uneven; she had to sigh before she could speak but she did not back away from Sherlock.

"I understand that you have every right to angry at me." She stated, making sure to look Sherlock directly in the eyes.

"I'm not here to berate you on who you chose to have sex with." He redirected, "I told you before that I don't care about that. I'm only here to make a recommendation."

"You're going to tell me to stay away from Jim." Molly assumed, eyes breaking contact to look down at his "I already _am._ We broke up. I don't know where he is. If _did,_ I'd tell you. He tried to kill me."

_Lies._

More lies.

This was the kind of mud that made her feel so disgusting…but it was also the kind that she couldn't wash off once it had splattered onto her and so now she was bathing herself in.

Fully submerged.

And _drowning. _

What had Jim done to make her this way?—no. She couldn't blame Jim for this.

She'd made her choices (the wrong choices), she was still making her choices (the wrong choices) and she'd have to live with them.

And_ that_ included _lying._

Sherlock _hopefully_ hadn't known that Molly was here because Jim invited her and _hopefully_ this was all a coincidence—but if_ not_, then Jim had _hopefully _figured out that Sherlock was here and _hopefully_ wouldn't come.

Because if Sherlock _knew,_ then this was a trap for Jim and there could be hundreds of people stationed in the apartment building to apprehend him.

But Molly didn't know what Sherlock knew and so had to continue lying as if he knew nothing.

"Although staying away from Jim Moriarty_ is _something I would recommend, that isn't what I'd planned to say." Sherlock corrected, only partially believing her, "I know it wouldn't work. Jim is an expert at manipulation and after the amount of time you've spent with him, you no doubt have developed an attachment to him. Love and loyalty in addition to the fear of him hurting you if you don't 'play along' with his 'games'. Telling you to stay away from Jim would be as useless as—"

(As telling _Jim _to stay away from Sherlock. Or Molly.)

"You keep calling him 'Jim'." Molly interrupted, "You never did before. Why are you calling him that now?"

Was he in contact with Jim?

"Because he has a brother with the same name." Sherlock replied, without missing a beat, "It's to distinguish the two."

He was quicker and better at lying than her.

Although, what he said _was _true—just not the_ complete _truth.

"…oh." Molly responded, believing him, and then adding, "…I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I never should have betrayed you. And I _did_ help Jim…but I never wanted you—or _anyone—_to get hurt. I never wanted _any _of this to happen."

Sherlock knew what she meant by 'this' (or _thought_ he did, at least) she didn't need to _explain._

And so she_ didn't_ explain that she actually wanted to be with Jim, that he hadn't forced her or threatened her into being with him (no, he hadn't even _needed_ to).

Not because she wanted to maintain her innocence in 'this' (well, maybe a little) but because it would probably hurt Sherlock more that his friend had chosen his enemy over him.

And all it had taken was Jim being_ nice_ to her…

Didn't matter what he'd _done,_ to Sherlock, to her, to every one.

Didn't matter that he was lying through his sharp teeth that, just like his hands, he kept so contradictingly clean despite the blood he'd splattered all over them.

Jim had always said it was a _good thing,_ to 'feel dirty'.

He'd been joking, yes, but he'd also been _lying._

Molly _hated _it.

"I know you didn't." Sherlock sympathized, "This was partially _my_ fault. I should've realized that Jim would've come back for you. He used you to get to me and I put you in danger by not protecting you after that. It's very lucky that he didn't kill you. And even though he didn't, I still lost you and I regret that._ I'm_ sorry."

_Sherlock had finally seen the light!_

_Molly's dreams had come true! _

…or Sherlock was _lying_ again.

Molly forced herself to laugh.

Because this was _funny._

It was really, really funny that Sherlock thought that she would fall for this trick _again. _

The laugh was half-hearted and sudden, shattering the stillness of the dark flat and the quiet conversation like she'd thrown a cup made of safety-glass sharply to the floor and broken into thousands of tiny pieces—inconvenient to clean up, but unable to actually cut _(hurt) _anyone.

But it made its point.

"You're being _nice_ to me, Sherlock." Molly commented, "You're only nice to me when you want something. What do you want?"

(But wasn't that true of _Jim,_ too? Wasn't that true of _everyone?) _

"I know you've recently started work at a new hospital." Sherlock began, "John also works there now. I need you to stay away from him, Molly."

"_Why?"_ Molly asked, suspiciously.

'Too dangerous' wasn't a good enough answer for her anymore and Sherlock probably knew by now that neither Jim nor James had any desire or reason to kill or threaten John.

As if reading her mind (or maybe her face), Sherlock demonstrated his own (more hidden and controlled) suspicion in his facial expression.

"There_ is_ someone that I know has motive to hurt John." He informed, choosing his words very carefully (and very restrictively), "Your proximity to John at the moment would give that person an opportunity to do so."

"Who?" Molly attempted.

But Sherlock gave her that _look _(with those blue eyes that were the opposite of Jim's, two-way mirrors that he could see everything out of and kept everything out and from looking in) the look that meant she was stupid for even _trying._

"Okay." Molly consented, without him even having to say anything, "…but if I stay away from John, you have to promise me something."

"Promise you what?" Sherlock questioned (even though he already knew the answer).

"Don't kill Jim." Molly answered.

"Why not?" Sherlock questioned (even though he already knew the answer).

The all-but undetectable edge in his voice was taunting, just _daring_ her to answer the question with sobs and pleas of _'Jim is sick and needs help, don't turn into a murderer Sherlock, don't sink to his level!'_, daring her to _lie._

But Molly smiled sadly, shaking her head, saying nothing (and yet everything).

Sherlock said nothing, too, contemplating before speaking.

"…I can't make that promise_."_ he refused, "I don't know what circumstances Jim will create, but I can tell you that I won't kill him if I don't have to."

"I don't know if it actually means anything…" Molly murmured, almost embarrassedly, "…but Jim promised me he wouldn't kill anymore. Not even you. He could've been lying, but I don't think—"

"Don't try to predict his actions." Sherlock cautioned, "It's impossible. You don't understand—"

"_But you do."_ Molly reminded, "And the fact that you won't make a promise unless you're sure you'll keep it_ has_ to say something about Jim."

Sherlock sighed.

"You know that Mycroft has you under surveillance." He said, "If you see Jim again, he _will _know about it and he _will_ catch him._ I_ don't want to kill Jim, but I can't speak for my 'dear' brother who has far less tolerance for 'bad behavior' than I do. If you want Jim to live, you'll stay away from him and hope that I get to him first."

Molly didn't like Sherlock's statement, but she nodded and didn't stop him when he stepped past her to leave the flat without another word.

She watched him go but he didn't leave her alone in the darkness. No, he flipped the lightswitch on for her on his way out.

Once Sherlock was gone, Molly had time to _think._

Sherlock still thought she was stupid—maybe not as stupid as he thought she was before—but still stupid.

She wasn't.

That evening Molly had been able 'deduce' three things:

First, that if John was indeed in danger from an unnamable enemy, that enemy was someone that Sherlock didn't want to or_ couldn't_ use Mycroft's employees to protect him from.

_Why? _

Second, that Sherlock and Mycroft weren't working together to capture Jim.

_Why?_

And third, Sherlock had dyed and cut his hair.

_Not_ 'why?'

(—it was obviously to disguise his identity and Molly actually thought it looked better this way.)

* * *

Jim got a job.

A _real_ job.

In the IT department of St. Bartholomew's hospital.

Mostly, he just sat at his desk browsing the internet (and private medical records) and got paid to do it.

It wouldn't have been worth the money, however, if it hadn't been for Sherlock stopping by the hospital every so often.

No amount of money was worth _boredom._

And so Jim found something to do.

Molly Hooper.

No, not like _that._

He was _gay,_ for god's sake! Completely and totally!

_Definitely. _

(Even though he'd slept with women as well men (and anything that moved—and even _some _things that didn't.))

Jim was just testing a theory, was all, doing an experiment much like his contemporary the great scientist Sherlock Holmes would do for the benefit of mankind and/or money (for fun and/or because he was bored).

Except that this was more a_ psychological_ experiment than a biological one…although it could_ possibly_ get biological._ maybe—_If Jim wasn't gay (which he was (really).

**Experiment**

**Researcher: **Jim Moriarty.

**Test Subject: **Molly Hooper.

**Hypothesis:** Molly Hooper had no gaydar whatsoever and so no matter how gay Jim acted around her, she'd still take his interest as sincere and continue to be interested him.

**Independent Variable:** Jim Moriarty's level of gayness.

**Dependent Variable: **Molly Hooper's gaydar (or lack thereof) registering or _not _registering Jim Moriarty's gayness.

**Results: **(see below)

After chatting with Molly a bit on her (very pink and kitten filled which, being gay 'Jim from IT' loved _(Jim Moriarty,_ not so much)) blog, (which nobody read except for him (he'd counted the page views)) Jim asked her to coffee.

He had asked it even _more awkwardly_ (if that was even possible) than she'd asked Sherlock, asking first if she even liked coffee, and _still_ gotten a 'yes'.

Jim was just _that _irresistible and Molly was just_ that _desperate.

(Or maybe_ Jim_ was the desperate one for asking out a girl Sherlock had rejected—but he wasn't going to consider _that_ possibility.)

And so now Jim was early.

He was waiting in the cafeteria (deserted but well-lit at twelve o' clock at night) of the hospital, in the very middle table of the empty room.

He kept himself from getting too bored by filling the stryofoam cups with coffee from the machine and collecting the necessary packets of sugar, artificial sweetener (in case she was one of those women watching her weight—like he 'was') nonfat and regular cream, and then assorting all the drink items on the table in front of him.

Finally Molly arrived, peaking in the open doorway to glance around the brown and white room, finding where Jim sat and then hurrying over to the table he'd chosen.

She was used to sitting at a corner table and so sitting in the middle of the large cafeteria, its walls and ceiling towering around her, activated the bit of agoraphobia in her.

Jim, however, did _not _activate her gaydar.

He stood up as soon as she got close enough, extending a hand to shake which she took. They shook lightly.

Since being a straight woman she had a weak handshake because she was supposed to be weak (so men would love and protect her) and being a gay man he had a weak handshake because he was supposed to be weak (to resemble a woman as much as possible).

Parts were being played oh-so perfectly _(stereotypically)._

"Hi, I'm Jim." Jim greeted, smiling widely (fakely), "You're Molly, right?"

"Yeah, that's me." Molly affirmed, smiling widely (politely), "I'm sorry I'm so late!"

She was slightly out of breath, as if she'd run all the way here.

But she _hadn't,_ of course (even if she had been extremely excited about being asked on a 'date' (—if this even _was _one, she wasn't sure yet)), it was just the hyperventilation caused by the anticipation.

Molly had just agreed to meet a man in person that she'd met over the internet.

She had every reason to be cautious and nervous.

For all she knew he'd been lying to her and even if he_ hadn't_ she had no idea how old he was, how he looked, or if he really worked at St. Bartholomew's at all.

This Jim person could've been _anybody_—a _criminal_ even!

And so Molly hadn't been _late, _really.

She'd simply allowed Jim to arrive first so she could get a look at him before going over to meet him…

…and made sure she hadn't been _stood-up,_ instead of waiting for hours in the cafeteria like a fool.

Molly and Jim sat down across from each other, Molly examining the cups of coffee already gone lukewarm and the different additives offered like a miniature buffet.

"It's alright." Jim forgave Molly for being late, "I got us the coffee and stuff, already, I hope you don't mind. I didn't start without you or anything. What do you want in your coffee?"

"Oh, I don't put anything in coffee anymore." Molly told him.

She reached forwards for a cup but because both cups were next to eachother and exactly the same, she didn't know which one to choose and so her hand paused.

"I'm sorry but which one's mine?" she asked, keeping her eyes focused on the coffee, rather than making eye-contact with Jim.

She hadn't taken the chance to really_ look_ at him, yet, it was too intimidating to examine someone's (especially a man's) features when she was this close to person, only a tabletop and two cups of coffee away.

"Doesn't matter." Jim shrugged, "You can have whichever one you want."

Molly's hand still didn't move, hovering over the two white stryofoam that matched her labcoat.

Perhaps Jim would spill some coffee onto her clothes, and then insist upon getting it drycleaned for her as an excuse to see her again.

If he _wanted_ to see her again, that is, which he probably _wouldn't._

So far the only thing interesting about this Molly Hooper woman was that she was a little bit of a nervous-wreck; jumpy and over-sensitive.

Jim sighed but made sure to keep the smile on his face—just in case Molly actually looked up at him.

"…here." He said, "You can have this one."

He pushed one of the two cups into Molly's waiting hand, _'accidently' _brushing her thumb with his just to see how she would react.

She tensed, noticing the touch but not shivering at it or anything special.

If _Sherlock_ touched her, she'd shiver (and possibly _faint,_ as well).

But then again, Molly didn't know who he _was_ and never would.

There's no way she'd figure out he was a criminal, she's probably never even figure out that he was _gay._

"Thanks." Molly smiled, finally looking up at him.

Across from him, really, seated they were the same height and standing he still wasn't that much taller than her.

She'd never gaze up at him the way she did at that walking tower that was Sherlock who looked down on everyone like a god in the sky.

But Jim wasn't self-conscious about his height _(no, not at all! never! no way!)_, he'd just have to pull Sherlock down with him so they'd be eye-level like they had been that day in the locker-room.

(Besides, 'height doesn't matter when you're lying down' (wink-wink, nudge-nudge.))

Molly took a sip of coffee to make the silence less awkward, Jim intentionally mirroring her movement and doing the same (which was easier for him to do, anyway, because he was left handed).

And when _he_ set _his_ cup down, _she_ did the same.

This was working already.

It was almost _too_ easy.

No, not even _'almost'._

It _was._

Jim hated his coffee black but he'd forgone condiments to mimic Molly.

It was an art, getting someone to like you and he had the keen eye, steady hand and natural creativity of an artist.

But then he remembered he was supposed to be gay and dumped all the packets of artificial sweetener and cream into his stryofoam cup upon putting it back down on the light-brown table.

Molly raised an eyebrow in confusion but said nothing, instead taking another sip of her unflavored coffee.

Jim chuckled.

"Sometimes I just can't make up my mind." He explained, then adding, _daringly,_ "…I guess I've decided that I'm sweet on you already, Miss Molly Hooper."

Molly choked a little as she drank, eyes widening, but managed to swallow.

Quickly, she set down her cup.

"Um…thank you?" She tried, awkwardly, "But you barely know anything about me—except maybe what you've read on my blog…I don't know anything about you, though. Can you tell me?—only what your comfortable with sharing, of course."

Jim grinned and took a deep breath before speaking.

He'd caught her off guard.

_Good. _

"Well…I work in IT—but you already know that so it was stupid of me to say." he began, laughing embarrassedly and running his fingers through his hair, "so where should I start…hmm…I was born in Ireland, but we left when I was young. I've got citizenship through my mum. She and my dad are divorced now, anyway."

Playing male-version-of-Molly was fun. But _real _Molly was getting beginning to relax and even open-up, now.

This Jim from IT was harmless, just as awkward yet friendly as she was.

A 'kindred spirit'.

It was _perfect_ already.

Yes, it _was._

Molly was so easy to fool—but then again so were most people.

Jim wondered if Sherlock would fall for this act as easily as Molly did.

Probably not.

_Still, he should test that theory out…maybe in a few weeks..._

"I'm sorry." Molly empathized, sincerely and softly, "_…_How old were you?—no. That's a terrible question to ask. I'm sorry—"

"It's alright, I don't mind." Jim dismissed, "I was about ten or eleven, I guess, when we left my dad. We _had_ to. I was sad at first, I guess, but I don't really see him that often, especially now. He's a…troubled person. An alcoholic, to be honest. He won't let anyone help him."

Because all Irish people were drunks and were drunk all the time.

And Molly obviously knew this 'fact', the bigoted British bitch (because calling her a 'British bitch' wasn't bigoted at all), because she was now holding his hand in a motherly manner like he was sobbing child so unfortunate to be born into a broken home.

"…Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, Jim." Molly sympathized, "That's awful. It's must be really hard

"It's okay." Jim interrupted, wrenching his hand back as if it _wasn't,_ "…I'm fine."

He stared off towards the window, looking out at the dark city and the bright light dramatically as if in deep, brooding contemplation.

Out of the corner of one eye, he could see Molly watching him when she thought he couldn't see her, a mixture of pity and admiration on her face.

Women loved damaged, tragic heroes who put on a brave face.

…but Jim was supposed to be _gay_ (and not the _sexy Shakespearean_ kind of gay, either. No, he was supposed to be the _sassy hairdresser_ kind of gay that women wanted for their best friend and fashion advice,_ not_ for their erotic fantasies) and so he had to tone it down now even though he was having fun.

"I'm sorry." Jim apologized, turning back towards Molly who quickly averted her staring gaze, "I shouldn't be this _negative._ I hope I didn't offend—"

"You didn't, I don't mind." Molly reassured, but then worried with fumbling words, _"I'm_ the one who shouldn't have pried into your personal business. It isn't the best topic of conversation for a first date—if this _is_ a 'date'. I don't want to assume it is if it's not. We could just be chatting, I'm fine with that too, I'm fine with whatever—"

"It's a date." Jim stated, seriously and even _smoothly_—_too_ smoothly, "…I mean if _you_ want it to be it is. I _hope _it is."

"Then it is." Molly beamed, matter-of-factly.

"Good." Jim matched, considerably less genuinely.

Like a lightbulb, Jim was just as warm and just as bright as sunlight—but he wasn't the real thing.

A few moments went by of looking across the table at each other, smiling and making eye-contact (both of Molly's always broke first, because they weren't forced) as they took short sips of cold coffee while trying to figure out what to say next.

Finally, Jim laughed.

It was a release of a held breath, trying to relieve the growing tension.

It allowed Molly to laugh too.

"…well, I'm not any good at this, am I?" Jim 'admitted'.

"Neither am I." Molly admitted.

"I'm so used to being on a computer all day I've forgotten how to have a conversation in person." Jim explained, chuckling and shaking his head, "Or maybe I never really knew at all."

"I don't spend much time around people, either." Molly empathized, "At least not people that _talk,_ anyway."

Jim snorted at her joke.

_(Finally_ someone with a sense of humor in this boring hospital where everyone else was just _so goddamn serious_ all the time!)

Molly smiled.

_(Finally_ someone who appreciated her sense of humor in this hospital where people were rightfully and professionally serious all the since health issues were serious and sensitive matters.)

"Well, you're here with me now." Jim said, "So is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Molly thought for a moment.

"…well, you got to read my blog to find out a bit about me beforehand," she considered, "but I don't know much about you yet and so I'd like to talk about you. If it's alright, I could just ask you questions…"

"Ask away." Jim accepted.

He leaned back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head to make himself more relaxed and comfortable…

…then falling and flailing backwards through the air behind him since the tables in the cafeteria had long brown stools instead.

Luckily, he caught himself before he fell out of his seat and sat back up straight, laughing and blushing embarrassedly.

(This was all part of the gay and nerdy 'Jim from IT' act, of course, it was _most definitely _intentional. _Really.)_

Molly was polite enough to mask her giggles by drinking from her white cup.

Jim could see the laughter on her face, though, her face was an open book from which he could read her mind.

She must have had little to no control over her facial expressions, they were the most honest (and _diverse,_ too) he'd ever seen on an adult.

And the _best._

(—other than _his own,_ of course, and _Sherlock's_ (and those were always _disappointingly _faked.))

He'd have to try them out in the mirror sometime.

_He wondered how she'd look when—_

"You alright?" Molly checked.

The half-fall (that was _not_ accidental _at all)_ wasn't dangerous but it was the polite thing to do, making sure he was okay.

Jim nodded.

"…good, then I'll ask the questions now." Molly decided, "You have to be honest, too, by the way. So if you don't feel comfortable answering something, just tell me, but you can't lie—okay?"

"Okay." Jim lied.

"I'll start with something easy." Molly started, "What's your favorite type of movie?"

Movies, eh?

Molly wanted to see Jim again, then.

She was fishing for a date idea.

Time to play gay.

"Oh, I really like romantic comedies." Jim told her, "They're funny but they're still sweet and lighthearted. They make me happy."

"I like those too." Molly grinned, excitedly.

_Gay Level Three—_no gaydar.

(Gay Level One was his metrosexual outfit, Gay Level Two was polite and nervous 'feminine' behavior.)

_Rise to Gay Level Seven: enjoying musicals. _

(Gay Level Eight was watching gay porn, Gay Level Nine was openly flirting with men, and Gay Level Ten was having gay sex…

…_and…_

…Gay Level Four was moving in with another man, Gay Level Five was spending almost all one's time with this other man, and Gay Level Six was merging two separate lives into one so that one both lived and worked with this other man, to the exclusion of almost all others.)

"That's great!" Jim exclaimed, just as 'excitedly', "Do you like musicals? I love musicals!"

And at the hospital Halloween party he could be Sweeney Todd and she could be Mrs. Lovett, they could even use the morgue bodies as props.

Now _that_ would be fun.

(And probably get them both fired—not that Jim cared.)

But there was _no way _this 'relationship' would last all the way until _October,_ let alone the second date.

"You do?" Molly inquired, slightly surprised (but not put-off), "Me too!"

Had just she _never heard_ of being gay before or something?

Maybe not.

The way Molly dressed, Jim wouldn't have been surprised to learn that her parents hadn't taught her about 'the birds and the bees' before they died (when she was six (mother) and nineteen (father) according to the hospital's records).

But it was springtime now and the_ least_ Jim could do for poor Molly was give her a sex education lesson…

"Yeah, musicals make me happy." Jim stated, then continuing with, "And _joyful._ And _ecstatic._ And _glad._ And all the synonyms of the word 'happy', there was another one that started with a 'g', I think…"

_Come on,_ Molly!

_Think! _

It was _obvious!_

How could she _not _see it?

"…uh_…Gleeful, _maybe?" Molly guessed, "…oh, that reminds me! There's this programme I've just started watching. It's called 'Glee'. It's American but it's really good. It's about a teacher and a bunch of his students who start a glee club at school. They sing a lot, mostly covers of American pop songs..."

"I think I might've heard of that." Jim considered, "What channel's it on again?"

"It doesn't actually air in the UK yet." Molly informed, then smiling just a little when she added, "…but I've got the DVDs. Would you like to come over and watch sometime?"

* * *

Jim was handcuffed.

And he really should've seen it coming, too, when Irene followed him out of the shady inn the in the sketchy part of the city after she'd insisted that she, he and Sherlock all the travel separately to that location earlier that day.

Irene had Jim with a needle as if she was going to drug him, but really the syringe was empty and so she'd slapped the handcuffs onto his hands as soon as he raised his arms to defend himself from her.

It was sort of dark out and that was the sort of thing that happened in this sort of neighborhood and so if anybody had _seen,_ they simply averted their eyes like they always did.

Just another sex game, exhibitionist style.

"_Really,_ Miss Adler?" Jim deadpanned, "I don't think now's the time or the place for this."

"I think it is." Irene disagreed, "…unless you'd prefer to be handcuffed in prison which is where you'd be if you went to see Molly Hooper tonight."

"You and Sherlock planned this." Jim 'deduced' leaning against the brick wall of the alley.

(He'd ducked into the alleyway as soon as he'd realized Irene was trying to follow him, but by then it was too late.)

"We saw the 'writing on the wall'." Irene smiled, referring to the graffiti and its obvious message, then adding, "…Miss Hooper's flat is our 'headquarters' at the moment and you've compromised it. You know that Mycroft's people will follow her there."

"They won't go inside." Jim dismissed, "And they won't have seen me."

"You're easier to follow than you think." Irene countered, folding her arms.

"Mycroft Holmes's employees are busy behind computers, scanning footage from security-cameras with facial recognition software." Jim stated, rolling his eyes, "They're looking for people with beards and mustaches, people in drag or in fatsuits. In _costumes._ They're looking for people with similar facial proportions to mine. They're not looking for _me."_

"It doesn't matter whether they're looking for you or not if they see you with Miss Hooper." Irene reasoned, "And they'd see you if you were in the flat with her. We can doctor security footage, but we can't make people _blind." _

"Oh, _I_ see." Jim gasped, in mock surprise but real realization, "Sherlock was following Molly, too. That's how he found out about this."

"No," Irene corrected, "You _told_ him. And me, too."

"He knew before." Jim replied, "And so did you. You wouldn't have brought the _handcuffs,_ otherwise."

He raised his wrists, shaking the metal around them.

They didn't hold him in place nor bind him to Irene but they kept him from continuing on his way all the same as he'd look pretty silly and _very noticeable_ walking the streets wearing them.

Sometimes a man threatened with death was just as immobile as a dead man, sometimes a word was as powerful as an action—but only if there was weapon to go with it.

In _this_ case, it was the handcuffs accompanying the threat of arrest and imprisonment.

"Safety precaution." Irene admitted, with a shrug, "We'd hoped I wouldn't have to use them."

"Sherlock left before us." Jim recounted, "He's gone to see Molly in my place. What does he want from her?"

"Sherlock's gone to eat dinner with his older brother." Irene lied, careful with her words so Jim would be unable to turn her statement into an incestuous joke.

"It's past dinnertime." Jim disbelieved, "Mycroft's punctual, not to mention a real traditionalist. He's probably the last on earth that still eats dinner at six in the evening in this modern age. It's already past eight. I know Sherlock's sneaking around trying to steal my girlfriend."

"If Sherlock had wanted her, he'd have had her." Irene reminded, softly and powerfully, "He's told me the story and so have _you._ And you'll lose her if you don't stay away from her."

"I'll lose her if I do." Jim returned, "I can't keep her waiting forever, even I'm not that cruel."

"I mean you'll be taken into custody." Irene clarified, sharply, "And you know that. So are you _actually_ so _desperately_ in love that you've become _stupid_…or is this just another _game_ of yours? A weak but annoying rebellion against the rules Sherlock's made for you so that you don't feel _as_ out-of-control in this situation?"

"The first one, I think." Jim snarked, chuckling sarcastically, "But I'm too _stupid_ to know for sure."

Irene sighed.

But Jim could talk all he wanted; lies or the truth, it didn't matter.

All she had to do was keep this conversation going long enough for Sherlock to have _his _conversation with Molly.

"So you admit you're in love with her?" Irene baited, as if Jim's words had been completely sincere.

"Course I do." Jim affirmed, matter-of-factly, "I'm not one of those people who're afraid to love because they're afraid to _lose._ I'm not one of those people who're afraid to love because they're afraid of being _weak._ Love's just another emotion, not anything _special._ Just chemicals in the brain. I'm not _afraid _of it—I'm not afraid of _any_ emotion. I just don't often _feel _it."

"But you feel it for her?" Irene inquired.

"I feel it for _The Game."_ Jim explained, "And Molly's part of it…but she's not _Sherlock._ She can't make me feel anything I don't _want _to. I do love Molly, but I'm just playing along. It's not a _lie,_ really, because this game is the _love of my life, _but it isn't exactly the _truth_ either—at least not the way dear, _simple_ Molly would define it. But I do think it's something _you'd_ understand, brilliant Irene. Everything I feel for Molly I _chose_ to feel, I made myself feel, because I wanted to. And I still want to, but I can stop whenever I want."

Irene giggled, just a little.

"Sherlock probably knows a bit more about this than me, but isn't that what addicts say?" she analyzed, "I admit that I _myself _did get caught up in the game _I _played with Sherlock. I pulled him down with me without realizing that even though I_ willingly_ fell it was just as difficult to get back up as if I'd accidentally tripped."

"And so you _ran."_ Jim completed, "All the way to America. You were_ afraid_ of the power he had over you—or was he really just that bad in bed his first time?"

"I don't believe there was a bed involved, actually." Irene mused, slyly, "…but it was more than one time and Sherlock's an awfully quick study."

Jim absorbed that information for a moment, enjoying its manifest meaning before putting its latent one to use.

"Well, then if it was good you _must _have left him because you were scared." He figured, "I don't _get_ scared. Not of Sherlock Holmes and _certainly_ not of little Molly Hooper."

"And that's why _it_ happened to you." Irene concluded.

Jim had already talked straight into her trap, and now she'd laid the next one. Jim would bite.

"And what do you mean by _'it'?"_ Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.

He _knew_ she had something up her sleeve and he wanted to _see _it—even if it was knife waiting to stab him.

Anything was better than not knowing; than having someone be _smarter_ than you, than having someone _beat_ you.

Irene smirked.

And Jim recognized that I-know-something-you-don't-know look all too well from Sherlock's face.

This had been more than just a planned prevention of his meeting with Molly, Irene had planned this whole conversation for _maximum distraction._

Irene took a breath before she spoke—oh, so it was a _rehearsed line_ (or at least a well thought-out one).

" '_it'_ is falling in love." Irene said. "You fell in love with Molly because you weren't _afraid_ of her. Because you didn't think she could possibly be a threat to you in any way."

"I already told you—" Jim attempted but was interrupted.

" 'it' is _losing control."_ Irene defined, "But you'd never _jump_ into a roaring flame. You're not _stupid._ No, you'd know better. You'd know to avoid it, to be _afraid _of it. It's human nature. But…"

"But what?" Jim snuck-in, getting his pleasures with the rhyme and the extra 't' he'd added to 'but' in his mind because it was the only way he could in this particular conversation.

Another 'weak but annoying rebellion' by Jim against being 'out-of-control in this situation'.

Irene didn't let the buzzing bug and itching bite bother her.

Jim may have always taken the bait, but Irene didn't_ always_ scratch.

She kept on smiling.

"But while you're treading water," Irene continued, "thinking you're in control of the tides and won't be pulled under, thinking you're safe…you don't notice as the river slowly comes to a boil until you're already burning and there's nothing you can do about it."

Love is fire and love is water.

Love is_ nature_ and mankind can its power, but never truly control it.

Jim snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Nice words, Adler, but they don't describe _me."_ he declared, _"I'm_ the only one I take orders from and I do what I want. I _feel_ what I want. I control myself and _nothing_ can control me."

Irene was just as unconvinced at Jim's assertion as he'd been at hers.

But that didn't matter as long as they kept _talking. _

Which they w_ould _because these days Jim was an injured and snapping puppy, backed into a corner and barking at its masters because it couldn't bite.

And as Jim protested too much, Irene laughed to herself, guessing that Jim had probably used to think_ Molly_ was nothing.

* * *

Ever the gentleman, Jim had taken Molly out on two more 'dates' before finally taking her up on her offer to watch 'Glee' with her at her flat and going home with her one day after work.

The second and third dates were also both for coffee (inexpensive and low pressure), but at a much cozier and more romantic location than the hospital cafeteria (a café a couple blocks away).

Those dates were 'official' (not really, but Molly thought so) and so technically this was their third date.

And Jim Moriarty knew what 'third date' meant.

But he still kept that smug and shifty smirk from his face as he entered her apartment for the first time.

It was small and modest, like he'd expected, but much less _pink_ (Molly was only renting so she couldn't paint and too much of any one color (or any color at all) in a home was too eccentric for Molly).

It was mostly whites and beiges, neutral and boring tones like her neutral and boring personality and her neutral and boring life.

It was ugly and it suited her.

And _oh look,_ she had a_ cat_ too.

How adorable.

'Jim from IT' was a very polite (and very _gay)_ man did _not_ roll his eyes and who'd never have the nerve to initiate or even_ ask_ for sex from a woman.

And so he sat through a marathon of 'Glee' episodes before he even got up the nerve to _kiss _Molly for the first time (well, the first time that was more than a quick peck on the cheek or an even quicker on the lips).

It went pretty well after that, then.

Jim Moriarty was still playing gay, _yes,_ but 'Jim from IT' was still playing straight.

And they were both very good actors.

But just as Jim was about to show Molly_ how good_ he was, her lips broke away from his and not just to breathe.

Opening his eyes, Jim could see Molly glancing down at his hand.

It_ had _been undoing the top button of her shirt but_ now_ it was just holding onto it, awkwardly motionless.

When a hole had been burned it by her stare, he finally removed it, dropping it into his lap to fidget with the other hand that had been resting just above her hip before she'd made _that face_ at him.

('That face' being embarrassed, ashamed, guilty, even a little regretful but still _resolute.)_

'No' apparently meant 'no' with Molly Hooper—even if _she_ really wanted to say 'yes'.

But she didn't say anything but, "I'm sorry, Jim…"

"What? Did I do something wrong?" Jim panicked, hurriedly.

"No, no it's nothing you did!" Molly exclaimed, just as hurriedly, "You were _perfect,_ you _are_ perfect—" (she'd said too much there, sounded_ too_ interested. too late to go back now, though), "It's just that…that I just feel like this is moving too quickly, is all. We only just met less than a week ago—"

That was true. It_ had_ only been five and a half days.

"I know, but I feel like I've known you forever." Jim tried.

"If you really feel that, then you'll understand why I want to wait." Molly returned.

Okay.

So Molly wasn't _that_ stupid.

She wanted to make sure Jim would stick around before sleeping with him.

She was _serious _about this.

(Well, _of course_ she was, _all _women were looking for a husband, weren't they? And Molly _was_ getting a little _old…)_

"I understand." Jim accepted, "…I was being a bit pushy, wasn't I? I'm sorry."

He looked down at his lap 'ashamedly'—so that Molly would follow his gaze and regret being such a prude.

She was probably the most neglected, _un_sexy woman in the world. She should've been _thanking _him for his interest.

_Nobody refused Jim Moriarty!_

…but he_ wasn't_ Jim Moriarty tonight, he was 'Jim from IT'.

And 'Jim from IT' was very relieved that he didn't have to explain why it took him a while to 'get it up' for a moderately attractive female.

But Molly's gaze didn't follow his to his lap, she kept staring at his face because now she wanted to have a 'serious' discussion that needed eye-contact.

Jim looked up to watch her hands re-button the top of her shirt.

"This was _my _fault." she admitted, taking responsibility because she didn't want to blame him and_ lose _him, "I shouldn't have invited you over here. I know how that must've seemed. What_ else_ would you think?"

"Well, I shouldn't have just _assumed…" _Jim reasoned, taking _partial_ responsibility so that it could be something that they _shared, _"I already knew you weren't like that and this just makes me respect you—not that I didn't respect you _before_ or anything, it's just now I know for sure that you're serious about this…right? Because I am."

"Mmhm." Molly affirmed, nodding, "That's why I think we need to get to know each other better before we…you know. And not just like an acquaintance, but like a _friend._ I want to know that I can really trust you…do you get what I'm trying to say?"

Jim nodded too.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." he confirmed, "And I agree. I'm really sorry if I offended you."

"You didn't offend me." Molly managed to giggle (hopefully laughter would break the awkward tension), "…I'm _flattered,_ actually. It's not that often a man pays attention to me and actually wants to…"

_Oh god._

She'd said too much again, hadn't she?

The look on her face when she'd realized it was muted and quickly covered with another embarrassed laugh and breaking of eye-contact.

But Jim had had enough of that, he wanted to see some _real_ emotion on her face.

"…you're not a virgin are you?" Jim ventured, carefully, lowering his head so he could meet her lowered eyes.

_There. _

They widened at his words.

Just like her mouth which let out a little gasp as she tensed up.

Jim mirrored her, then taking it to _extreme_ and jumping back away from her slightly to the other end of the couch.

"Oh my god, that was rude question, I'm so sorry!" he cried, "I don't care if you are or you aren't! It's not my business! I'm sorry! I don't know _what _I was _thinking_ asking that!"

His movement caused Molly to look up and over at him.

She smiled, weakly at first but then sort of _amusedly._

"I'm not, don't worry." she told him, "And_ you're_ not either, right?"

"Of course not." Jim shook his head, laughing, "Who would be a virgin at our age anyway?"

Sherlock Holmes.

(But they weren't going to talk about _that.)_

"I don't know," Molly shrugged, also laughing, "A nun, maybe, or a monk?"

"Jesus?" Jim added, "Poor bloke_ died_ a virgin."

Even though it was impolite, Molly couldn't help but giggling into her hand at his joke.

There was a couch cushion between them again and she didn't want to be the one to move closer to him now that she'd changed his plan for the evening.

"You probably want to go, don't you?" she assumed, "It is getting late and we've got work tomorrow."

Jim snorted.

Molly thought he wanted to leave because she wasn't going to sleep with him and was giving him an excuse to go so he wouldn't get annoyed.

Oh, _as if_ he actually wanted her _that badly._

If only she knew who he was and he could do if he_ really_ wanted to, if he really wanted _her._

"…I'll leave if you want me to…." Jim said, a little sadly, shrugging and then moving as if he was going to stand up.

"Oh, no you don't have to go if you don't want to!" Molly exclaimed, leaping up to stop him but then forcing herself not to move, "You can stay if you'd like…"

"Really? Thanks!" Jim responded, blinking and lowering himself back onto the sofa, "I mean we never did finish that popcorn, or the episode…"

"You're right." Molly recognized, blushing but smiling at the reason for that as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "…now let me find the remote..."

She glanced around the sofa, searching for the device that was probably trapped between the cushions with some spare kernels of popcorn.

"Here it is." Jim said, retrieving it from the coffee table in front of the couch and holding it out towards her.

"Oh, thanks." Molly thanked.

But when she reached for the remote, he pulled it back, teasingly, chuckling as she leaned forward from two cushions away, unable to retrieve it.

Finally, Molly scooted over to sit next to Jim and grab the remote out of his hand and then turn back on the television triumphantly.

His hand now free, Jim was able to pull Molly close to him and put an arm around her, even risking a kiss to the top of her head.

Molly didn't protest, instead settling comfortably against him as they returned to their 'Glee' watching, every so often munching on handfuls of lukewarm popcorn from the bowl now resting in her lap.

"_You know, Molly…"_ Jim murmured into her hair, while the credits rolled up the screen, "I'll wait for you as long as you want me to because you're _worth _waiting for. I feel like we understand eachother and I really think this could work. Do _you?_ Just tell me you do. _Please."_

Whining, desperate but _hopeful, _like a naïve schoolboy.

Even _Molly _would be turned off by that, right?

"I do." Molly stated, nodding (which caused her to bump Jim's face with the top of her head (which 'Jim from IT' was too polite to complain about)).

But of course, they were both lying.

Only difference was that Molly actually wanted to mean it and Jim never planned to.

* * *

But Irene had been the stupid one to believe that Jim would fall for her distraction. She should have known better than to have challenged Jim to a 'fight' in his area of expertise and expect to _win._

As much as Jim loved talking, he knew when to shut up (sometimes).

He only had to make Irene think he was playing along with the conversation long enough for him to slip out of the handcuffs.

(How could she think that he _didn't_ know how to do that (sure hers were _'special'_ but he'd had his experiences with_ those_ types too and they were actually _easier _to get out of, not being meant for police use.))

Extreme facial expressions had distracted Irene from his hands and once he'd freed himself, Jim had rushed out of the hallway and down the street.

He knew Irene wouldn't and _couldn't_ chase him in her high-heels.

(It's not like she couldn't run in heels, but in this neighborhood she'd look like a prostitute doing that and Irene did have her pride—sometimes the threat of seeming like a whore made a woman immobile (especially during sex where they were afraid to move lest it seem as if they were sluts who actually _enjoyed _it.))

But just like Sherlock, Irene knew exactly where Jim would be headed and so when he arrived at Molly's flat (after running, then walking, then finally taking a taxi) he found them waiting for him outside the front door.

"Late for something?" Sherlock 'deduced', raising an eyebrow Jim's slightly sweaty and flushed appearance due to running and then climbing up the stairs to Molly's floor in her cheap building without elevators.

"Aren't you?" Jim returned, "Dinner with the big brother, right?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then glared at Irene.

"I had to tell him something." Irene shrugged.

"Not about that." Sherlock grumbled, under his breath.

Irene turned to Jim.

"Well, Sherlock and I'll be off now." She declared, "As you requested, you may have the flat to yourself tonight—and to your guest."

Tugging Sherlock by his sleeve, Irene and he passed Jim and continued down the hallway away from him.

Once they'd disappeared down the staircase, Jim entered Molly's apartment.

It was_ dark_ and it was _empty._

Jim was too late.

* * *

**I always thought Benedict Cumberbatch looked better with his natural hair color and his hair shorter. But then again I always thought Sherlock looked like an alien. I'm still getting used to his face...but yeah, that's the explanation for his hair change in this story lol. ****  
**

**As for Andrew Scott, I never really noticed anybody (real or fictional) making facial expressions before but then I saw his face and now I'm a believer. lol. Maybe because Moriarty's were just always so extreme lol. But now I see them on other people.  
**

**I guess things just have to be really obvious for me to notice them, like the way some people don't register sarcasm in tones of voice. I mean I saw the expressions before, but they just didn't register...now they do. ****  
**

**That's why I never understood why people were complaining about Keneau Reeves (sp) and Kristen Stewart until now lol. It still doesn't bother me, really, but now I see what people were talking about.  
**

**And Louise Brealey, she has really good facial expressions too as Molly. I think she calls it 'wearing your heart on your sleeve'. And I think she was being a bit sarcastic.  
**

**And while we're on the topic of facial expressions...  
**

**Everybody important in Sherlock basically looks alike...except for Sherlock.  
**

**John, Jim, Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade, they've all got basically the same proportions for their faces. ****Especially Jim and Mycroft.  
**

**Some scientists say that people like people that look like them so I like to think this is because Mark Gatiss made a lot of casting decisions and it's not like Steven Moffat looks that different either.  
**

**Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson are the only main characters with long faces, and that's because Sherlock had to look like a 'Sherlock Holmes' and there aren't many older actresses, out there and to play an older, motherly character one's looks aren't as important.  
**

**Irene Adler's face matches Sally Donovan's the closest in shape. ****  
**

**Donovan and Anderson, look a bit alike proportionally, and both are deliberately written to be hated characters...and_ coincidentally_ they look so very different from the main characters.  
**

**I'm not saying that this was done on purpose, no I think it's completely subconscious lol.  
**

**But whoever cast Lara Pulver didn't want Irene to be traditionally beautiful or even even pretty (not that she's ugly).**

**And they certainly didn't like Irene Adler as a character (but you can tell that just from how they wrote her, I would've gone with a more subtle 'femme fatale' myself especially as a balanced transition to her as the villian from loud and out-there Moriarty) or want her to end up romantically with Sherlock. ****  
**

**Of course, with this subconscious dislike Irene ended up looking enough like Sherlock to be_ more_ physically and facially compatible with him. ****  
**

**But this is all just my opinion. I don't know any of it for sure and I never will.  
**

**lol.  
**


	18. Mistrust and Misanthropy

**Sorry for the wait everyone.**

**Almost ten days...**

**:( **

**This has been a busy week for me. I'm now at college living in a dorm and adjusting to this new life.**

**I miss my mommy already...**

**And I've missed this writing this story, too.**

**It was my summer, it was my life-but now I have to share that with school again.**

**But I want to thank everyone for their patience and their continued support, especially the reviewers who are always so kind to me.**

**I wouldn't be able to write without reviews and if I wasn't able to write I don't know what I would do with myself.**

**I started this story at the most difficult time in my life so far.**

**(Thank god that the most difficult thing I've ever experienced was the normal teenage drama of close friends drifting apart until they're both separate people again.)**

**But if I hadn't had this story to focus on and the amazingly nice and friendly reviewers supporting me, I would have been completely isolated throughout my senior year of high school and my summer.**

**Thank you all so much for that and although I can never repay it, I can continue this story.**

**And I will.**

**This chapter was difficult for me to write because it's been a bit hectic lately with moving.**

**Jim and Molly don't get back together in this one, but they do in the next chapter which will not take ten days (unless I get zero reviews lol or am suddenly hospitalized).**

**I'll admit it's 'filler' meaning that it's almost all plot-development and no character-development.**

**It's setting up for what will happen in the next chapters.**

**I've never had a 'favorite' character in Sherlock, I've never hated any of the characters and so I like writing them all (even the one that doesn't technically exist in the 'Sherlock' world)...if you don't like reading them all I'm sorry lol.**

**This story's cast has become an ensemble now lol.**

**Hope you still like it, though! **

**:)**

**I'm sleepy...**

* * *

Speedy's was the café on Baker Street next to 221a, b and c (b and c being unoccupied and a recently re-occupied by Mrs. Hudson).

The last time Mycroft Holmes had asked to meet John there, the topic of discussion had been Irene Adler.

But today, both John and Lestrade knew that Mycroft was meeting them here because he didn't want them to know where he was working (since he never seemed to be in his office or at the Diogenes Club (or available by phone or text message or email)).

They waited outside the small restaurant (by the door but without blocking it) and tried to look vaguely intimidating with their arms folded when they saw the black towncar pull up to the curb beside them.

When Anthea got out, Lestrade and John thought they'd been blown off again, but she held the door open for her employer who stepped out and towards them.

Mycroft smiled politely but John and Lestrade were _not_ smiling.

"…Good morning, gentlemen." He tried, "I apologize for not returning your calls sooner, but I've been very busy with—"

"I'm sure." John interrupted, curtly, "And so we don't take up too much more of your valuable time, we're just going to get right to the point."

"Don't you two want to go inside and sit down, have some coffee?" Mycroft suggested, gesturing to the café.

_Stalling. _

"No, we'll do this right here." Lestrade refused, then acting the full part of Detective Inspector by adding, "We have some questions for you, Mr. Holmes."

"Questions?" Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow but managing a small laugh, "You know I can't answer everything, due to nature of my job."

_Job._

Because Mycroft was still a high level government employee and poor 'Detective Inspector' Lestrade was now nothing but a lowly security guard.

"This isn't about your job." Lestrade corrected, "This is about Moriarty."

Mycroft kept his facial expression as neutral as possible at _that name_ but he knew Lestrade and John had seen his eyes widen slight as well as Anthea look up from her smartphone.

"We know he's alive." John stated, "And we know you know."

"Moriarty's _alive?"_ Mycroft feigned (shock, fear, skepticism), "What makes you think that?"

"Oh, just the fact that there's no body, no belongings, no physical evidence _at all_ that he shot himself the way the news claims." John listed, "…and the fact that you left a message for him on his bank account which he saw when he robbed a woman."

"I did leave a message for him on his bank account, I'll admit." Mycroft admitted, "But that was _months ago,_ before…" _(sensitive _topic, he trailed off) "…well, you know what happened. The message was a _warning._ Obviously it didn't _deter _Moriarty from his plans, but it did _hinder_ him by restricting his access to his finances."

_Okay. _

That was _plausible._

_Still…_

Lestrade and John exchanged a glance, considering this new information.

_(Was it true? Was it a lie?) _

"That doesn't explain why there is no body or other evidence." Lestrade reminded, "I saw the Yard's file on Moriarty—"

"I'm not going to ask how you saw a classified police file while on suspension," Mycroft interrupted, "but I will tell you that perhaps you were looking in the wrong place. The information regarding Jim Moriarty's death was filed under the name 'Richard Brook'."

_Alright._

_Also_ plausible.

But after their last conversation with Anderson and Donovan, John and Lestrade doubted that they'd be able to verify this—which Mycroft probably knew.

Now, John was normally a very calm person.

Although he felt emotions as strongly as most people, he made an effort to keep his controlled so that he behaved in an inoffensive (but situationally-appropriate) manner, even when dealing with traumas such as war, injury, and (of course) _death._

—_Including the death of his best friend Sherlock Holmes. _

But the one thing that _always_ got a reaction out of John—the one thing that made John _angry _was when someone else, a fellow human being, _just didn't care._

And right now, Mycroft Holmes standing in his expensive suit, next to his expensive car and his expensive (or at least well-paid) assistant, was acting like he _just didn't care._

_Just didn't care_ that his younger brother was dead.

_Just didn't care_ that the murderer (the one who'd driven him to suicide) was still alive and out there somewhere.

_Just didn't care_ that that murderer had killed countless others and would probably kill again.

_Just didn't care_ that _he_ had been the one to allow this all to happen by selling out his own brother for some computer code.

And so _yes,_ John was angry.

He growled, advancing towards Mycroft with clenched fists so that Anthea moved to block his path (sure John wouldn't _hit _a woman, but he_ would_ move one out of his way) and told him please back up.

Seeing this, Lestrade rushed after John.

He understood why John was angry, he was angry himself, but less at Mycroft and more at Moriarty and the situation as a whole.

But that was because he didn't know about how Mycroft had told Moriarty the life story of Sherlock which he had used to defame him in the newspapers or how Mycroft had had Moriarty in custody and then had set him free.

However, Lestrade did know that Sherlock and Mycroft had never gotten along and apparently Mycroft wasn't very sad that Sherlock had died.

"Listen, Mycroft, you need to stop playing dumb." John began, stopping and taking a breath to calm himself, "We saw your people arrest Sebastian Moran, who you blamed for the explosions, and the man he was working with at Scotland Yard is now also 'missing'. We know you know about whatever is going on here and if you're investigating this, then we want in."

Lestrade nodded in agreement, standing next to John.

"Thank you for offering to help, but my employees and I already took care of this matter." Mycroft informed, "Moriarty is dead. We tracked him down and killed him." he looked over at Anthea, "Show them the phone."

Anthea put her own smartphone away to pull out another cellphone from her jacket pocket, holding it out for John and Lestrade to examine.

Lestrade took the phone and scrolled through it.

"This could've belonged to _anybody."_ Lestrade decided, handing it back to Anthea, "And even if it _was_ Moriarty's, that isn't proof he's dead."

"If he's _really _dead, we want to see the body." John tested, seriously, glaring at Mycroft and Anthea.

Mycroft sighed but then smiled.

"That can be arranged."

* * *

Moran groaned as he exited the inn, rolling his eyes.

He hadn't stayed there overnight (no, he got to sleep in much more 'comfortable' lodgings provided to him by the British government (a prison cell)), he'd just come there to ask the current occupants some questions.

This inn now had only one guest, Douglas Gordon, who owned the building and populated it with his employees (concierge, maid, bodyguards).

Moran knew that Jim had met Gordon and since Gordon had disliked Jim (for various reasons culminating in the murder of his assistant), a sentiment which Moran wholly empathized with, Moran knew that Jim would be eager to visit (and annoy) Gordon again.

And so Moran had had to do one of the things he _hated_ to do.

_Talking to people._

Now, Moran wouldn't have had a problem talking to people—_if they stayed on topic_.

But people never did and conversations that should've lasted only a few minutes dragged on four hours because of people who thought they were _so smart_ just because they liked to distract and confuse people with unrelated tangents.

For example:

The maid and concierge at the inn had told Moran that they had no idea who this 'Jim Moriarty' person was but they wished Douglas Gordon would pay them more since if he could afford expensive call-girls, then he obviously had then funds to increase their wages, especially since he was the only guest at the inn and they were being very discreet by not telling anyone he was here—

_Okay. That's enough. _

_Thank you. _

_Next. _

The bodyguards at the inn had told Moran that Douglas Gordon had hired them to protect him from Jim Moriarty who'd killed his secretary and was coming for him next to finish the job. They wished Moran good luck finding this Moriarty guy but if he does, don't tell Mr. Gordon because then they'd be out of a job and he was paying them pretty well for their discretion and their twenty-four hour service, especially when they vetted the call-girls and—

_Thank you for your time._

_Next. _

Douglas Gordon had told Moran that Jim Moriarty had murdered his assistant and he hoped to god he never has to see him again, that man was crazy.

The only interesting thing Gordon had told him was that Moran wasn't the only one looking for Jim. A man and a woman had come by searching for him too and were still inside the inn, having stayed the night.

When Moran had asked who these people were, Gordon had said that he didn't know…

…but upon exiting the inn, groaning, Moran had seen _something_ out of the corners of his rolling eyes.

And that something was Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler staring at him from a middle floor window of the inn.

Shrugging, Moran just kept walking down the sidewalk of the shady street (which was mostly closed and asleep, at this early morning hour).

If they'd recognized him, then that was Mycroft's problem, not his.

And if Sherlock wasn't supposed to know Jim was still alive, then that too was Mycroft's problem, not his.

Moran didn't have time to waste on them, assuming that they'd gone to an out-of-the-way location for a hook-up that Mycroft wouldn't know about which, again, was Mycroft' problem not his.

And if they were also searching for Jim then they were wasting their own time because Moran was determined to find Jim first so that he'd have the satisfaction of killing him himself.

Moran knew Jim had to have come back to London by now, and would no doubt be scheming up his next pointlessly intricate plan to kill Sherlock—but only after toying with him for a few years or so, of course.

Because Sherlock seemed to enjoy being subjected to Jim's plans, if Sherlock got to Jim before Moran then Jim would probably be alive a lot longer.

That was the_ other_ thing Moran hated.

_Wasting time. _

Which he was not going to do today because he had to go _talk to people. _

Great.

* * *

Irene and Sherlock had thought that Jim would be in an _unfriendly_ mood that morning when they met (due to the fact that they'd once again prevented him from seeing his girlfriend—realizing that their insistence that he should avoid her only made him want to be with her more) so when he strolled towards them whistling a happy tune they were surprised.

And _suspicious._

Jim had suggested that they meet up in his favorite 'hangout' , King's Cross train station, where they could be just three more trees in the crowded forest and _invisible _even if they had been followed.

In each of Jim's hands were one of those papery-plastic cups of coffee (branded with a ubiquitous logo), which he held for Sherlock and Irene to take as soon as he reached the bench by which they stood.

"And how are my two best friends doing this fine morning?" Jim greeted, "I gotcha both something."

Reluctantly, they took the beverages.

_(Coffee?) _

_(Poison?) _

Jim stared at them eagerly until they took their tentative sips and _survived._

"You know, I used to live here when I was 'homeless'." Jim conversed, glancing around the populous station, "…after the 'gas leak' in the place I was sort of staying at on Baker Street."

Irene raised an eyebrow, looking over at Sherlock who made no visible reaction to Jim's statement.

"I used to sleep here, too, sometimes." He informed (with omissions) "When I was younger."

"I know." Jim smiled knowingly at Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes but nodded once in thanks since Jim hadn't explained any further.

"How spartan." Irene commented, rolling her eyes.

So Sherlock and Jim had some kind of _history_ here or something? Why was she the always one who got left out?

And awkwardly quiet moment passed between the three, punctuated by the sound of footsteps, vehicles and voices.

"So are we ready to work, or what?" Jim asked, suddenly, breaking the silence.

Sherlock and Irene blinked in surprise.

And_ suspicion._

Jim usually wasn't so eager to get to the point, preferring to take detours to his destination for the sake of an enjoyable journey.

"Yes." Sherlock affirmed, "Your three hostages still living from 2010, who are they?"

"Rejects." Jim stated, "Too boring to be my clients."

"And did you interact with them personally?" Sherlock asked.

"No, they weren't _worth _my time." Jim scoffed, "And James was being all anal about it, anyway. He said he wouldn't get me any gunmen if I let anyone see my face or know my name."

"And yet that defense company he used never wondered why a _professor _needed _gunmen."_ Irene reasoned.

"Well, _Sherlock and I_ never wondered why you just happened to know both of our brothers." Jim returned.

He and Sherlock both eyed Irene with wry intent.

"Obviously, I met them in church." Irene shrugged, matter-of-factly, "Now shall we discuss what we're going to do about those hostages?"

"Kill them?" Jim suggested.

"No, we're going to get them to go to the press." Sherlock declared, "Corroborate the story that I'm a fraud and you're Richard Brook. Sooner or later even _they're_ going to need more evidence of that than the word of a dead man."

"So do we bribe them or threaten them?" Irene inquired, casually because she was comfortable with doing either.

"We just give them information." Sherlock answered, "Tell them that a journalist named Kitty Riley is paying for stories about Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook and tell them _which_ story she is paying to hear. Now, there are three of them and three of us—"

"Ooh, I call the little boy!" Jim interrupted, raising a hand, "I'm_ great_ with kids."

"One of the hostages was a child?!" Irene exclaimed, taken aback, "I thought you said they were prospective clients…"

"I did." Jim confirmed, "And his parents_ were _wannabe clients…they just weren't _home_ at the time. Luckily, the boy _was."_

"You'll traumatize him, reminding him of that day." Irene laughed, "Didn't you strap a bomb to him?"

"No, I _hired _someone to strap a bomb to him." Jim corrected.

"There is no point in involving the child." Sherlock dismissed, "It won't help us. Jim, you can speak with the female hostage and Irene, you can speak with the male. We'll meet back at Molly's when we're done."

"And what will _you_ be doing?" Jim questioned, "Taking the day off?"

Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes.

"…I have to meet with Mycroft." He complained.

And Irene and Jim couldn't help but chuckle at that, Sherlock had the most difficult task of the three of them.

* * *

Talking to Molly Hooper _would_ have been a waste of time…

(If she _had _seen Jim, then she'd most likely lie about it and if she_ hadn't_ then she would be of no help, anyway.)

…_except_ that it would tip Jim (who probably kept Molly under some kind of surveillance) off that Moran was looking for him.

Moran knew just how much Jim loved to bother him; he wouldn't _hide_ from Moran—_he'd come find him himself._

And that would make Moran's job much easier.

…_hopefully. _

In case it _didn't,_ he still had to continue his search for Jim around London (fun, fun).

Not letting herself be taken by surprise again (the way she had when Anthea had come to the door), Molly rushed outside upon looking out the window to see an unfamiliar car (gray, not black) park across from her sister's home.

Moran exited the car, looking very _uncomfortable_ wearing a black suit that didn't suit him as he scanned the residential neighborhood.

Molly met Moran in the middle of the street, standing firm so that he couldn't even set foot onto the property and folding her arms sternly.

Molly knew she wouldn't look intimidating, but she was trying her best to _at least_ give off the _vibe_ that she had become very _annoyed _at these unscheduled and harassing interrogations by Mycroft's employees.

"Um, excuse me, Mr. Moran, but what is it _this_ time?" Molly asked, politely but frustratedly.

"You know who I'm looking for." Moran answered, curtly, "Now where is he?"

"I already told Anthea that I don't know." Molly exclaimed, throwing her hands up, _"Yesterday!"_

"Do you mind if I search this house, then?" Moran requested.

He tried to step around Molly, towards the path cutting through the cleanly mowed lawn but she moved to prevent him.

"Yes, I _do_ mind." Molly declared, "It's not even my house, I can't let you in there. And do you honestly think Jim's hiding in there?"

"I don't know, that's why I have to check." Moran stated, patronizingly.

Molly sighed.

"Jim knows people are looking for him and he knows people are watching me." She reminded, "If Jim were here, Mycroft Holmes would know and so he won't come anywhere near me. I'm tired of having to explain this—"

"I understand that." Moran accepted, "But you're going to have to consent to this search if you want to continue receiving government protection."

He glanced over at the black towncar parked down a few houses down the street from where they stood.

Molly didn't even need to look anymore to know it was there. It was the same vehicle that had been in her peripheral vision for the past two weeks.

"I never asked for 'protection'." Molly countered, "And they're not following me to _protect_ me, they're following me because they don't _trust_ me."

"Well, you're giving us a reason not to, refusing the search." Moran reasoned.

Molly shook her head, sadly and tiredly

"I'm not doing anything illegal." she said, seriously, "And I don't think you're really searching for Jim…I think you're just trying to draw him out. Get to him through me. And if that's what you need to do, _please,_ just don't do it _here_ around my pregnant sister and her six year old son."

She stared at Moran, not accusingly just knowingly, until he sighed.

"Fine." he agreed, turning and staring back towards his (burrowed) car, "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Molly doubted that she'd actually 'guilt-tripped' Moran, but she _had_ proven to him that searching the house would have been more trouble than it was worth.

She'd also 'guilt-tripped' _herself. _

What was she doing subjecting her sister's family to all of the drama revolving around Jim Moriarty?

So far it was just Anthea and Moran 'visiting'…

…but next time it could so easily be Jim 'just stopping by' and Molly wouldn't be able to fool her family a second time when the entire British government burst into their home to arrest Jim they way they had that afternoon at King's Cross.

Molly waited for Moran to get back into the car before stepping out of the street, and then waited in the front yard until he'd driven out of sight, before heading back into her sister's house.

As she started up the stone path, she saw her sister's husband Thomas walking down it towards his car parked in the driveway.

He smiled, waved her and so Molly returned the gestures, but as soon as he got close enough to say 'hello', 'hello' was not what not what he said.

"_Wow,"_ Thomas began, with a laugh, "You sure seem to know a lot of people who look like criminals. First your ex-boyfriend and now that man you were talking to just a moment ago who happens to look an awful lot like the sniper who was convicted of the bombings. Sebastian Moran, I think his name was…"

"You must've seen him from the window." Molly realized, "Anyone can look like someone else from that far away. Besides, the real Sebastian Moran should be in prison right now."

"Well who were you talking to, then?" Thomas inquired, "If not the 'real' Sebastian Moran? A fake?"

"Well, I don't know who that was." Molly told him, shrugging and trying to smile, "He was just lost and asking for directions."

"Directions to where?" Thomas asked.

Most people would have accepted Molly's answer and not thought to ask the follow-up question, but Thomas's_ job _was to interview defendants and witnesses.

Molly swallowed as she tried to think up another lie to tell her brother-in-law and knew that no matter what she said, she'd have said it too slow.

"…The petrol station." Molly decided on, finally, "He was almost empty and he could get whatever other directions he needed there. I told him where the one was a few blocks from here."

Thomas took a breath, examining Molly's nervous face (which was always a bit nervous and so told his untrained eye nothing about her) suspiciously until he remembered that he was already late to work.

"That was very nice of you, I hope he finds whatever he's looking for." Thomas nodded, then smiling, "Well, I'm off to work, now. You have a nice day, Molly."

He continued towards his car.

"Thanks, you too!" Molly called after him, also smiling (and sighing in relief).

She waved, watching Thomas back his vehicle out of the driveway and disappear down the street.

Once he was gone, Molly went back inside the house to pack.

She had let this charade go too far already, it was time she left her sister's place and went back home.

If she was to _live a lie,_ she'd live it _alone_ and keep anyone innocent safe from its dangers and from the truth.

_And if she was ever going to live in sin again, with her sinner…_

Molly was getting ahead of herself again, she didn't know where Jim was or what he was doing. She didn't know if she'd ever see him or even speak to him again.

But she _wanted_ to and once her sister, nephew and brother-in-law were out of the way (as callous as that sounded, it was for their own good (and hers, too, of course)) then she could try her hardest to make that happen.

This normal life of work, family and friends wasn't _enough,_ anymore.

And something (gut feeling? logic? _both?)_ told Molly that if Sherlock and Jim tried to kill one another again, then at least one of them would _succeed._

But if she could just get the two of them into the same room together, just get the two of them to _talk…_

…although they'd never be _friends,_ maybe they didn't have to be _enemies._

* * *

"_That can be arranged."_ Mycroft had said…

…and it _would_ be.

Just not _today._

Luckily and conveniently, both John and Lestrade had had to rush off to work right after their meeting which Mycroft, as did Mycroft after his meeting with them.

But the upcoming weekend, Mycroft would have to produce the body of Jim Moriarty to show Lestrade and John and allow the good doctor (who knew that Irene Adler had been able to have a fake corpse created) to _inspect_ it.

Hopefully he would have a body by then…

…but if not, then other _arrangements_ would have to _'be_ _arranged'._

Mycroft had sent Anthea to manage his government offices so he could do something that he (ahem)…_strongly disliked._

Having a conversation with his little brother Sherlock in a loud and crowded public location.

It wasn't that Mycroft disliked having conversations with Sherlock, it was just that these conversations always and inevitably turned into arguments and if there was one thing Mycroft did dislike was arguing with Sherlock.

Sure, he was smarter than Sherlock (—or at least he thought so (and because he was _smarter,_ he was _right)) _but Sherlock didn't know that and Sherlock just didn't know when to give up.

He'd argue _forever_ just to spite Mycroft, and although Mycroft was (supposed to be) the older, smarter _(and taller_, too—take that, Sherlock!), more mature _(definitely)_ brother, there was just something about Sherlock that (ahem)…made Mycroft _strongly dislike_ having conversations (arguments) with him.

And as for crowded and loud public places, well, Mycroft just didn't like those.

The British government would give him a private jet if he asked, and so since his promotion to his 'minor position' (and since his _entire life,_ really), Mycroft had never liked train stations _(too lowbrow)._

_That,_ of course, was why Sherlock had asked to meet Mycroft in the main terminal of Paddington Station, rather than the (nice, safe, clean, quiet) first-class longue.

Mycroft stood waiting for Sherlock, a few black-suited employees surrounding him casually from a distance so that nobody _else _would get too close.

This disrupted the _traffic flow_ of the corridor, forcing the masses to move around Mycroft and his people who stood in the middle of the hall…except for Sherlock who pushed through the black fabric (and human) wall to approach Mycroft.

Dressed in his (much more discreet than expensive black suits (or gray or brown, in the case of Mycroft)) street clothes, this 'ghost' Sherlock reminded Mycroft of the_ zombie_ that had roamed the streets of London in search of sensation for—or _escape_ from his headache of a hungry genius mind.

Mycroft _should_ have felt bad, leaving a meeting with John and Lestrade to have another meeting with the very friend they were grieving…but it was for the 'greater good' and so he _didn't._

(Besides, Sherlock had always kept his 'friends' (his _friends)_ at a distance from Mycroft, as if because they were the only people he cared about then he was the only person _allowed _to care about them.)

"Hello, dear brother." Mycroft greeted with a smile, mimicking the way Sherlock the sarcastically spoke to him when he wanted something, "I missed you at dinner last night."

(But _completely_ meant it, of course.)

_(Of course.)_

Sherlock, however, was in no mood to 'play games' or 'verbally spar' with his big brother today.

The look on his long face was even more serious than normal, and attempting to hide urgency and concern in the corners of blue eyes.

"I saw Sebastian Moran." Sherlock declared.

"Where?" Mycroft asked.

He wondered how Moran's search for Jim could have steered him anywhere near Sherlock.

"In London." Sherlock answered, dryly, "Why is he in London?"

"Because he's my agent and he's on an assignment." Mycroft told Sherlock, "And that's all I'm able to disclose, I'm afraid."

"I don't care if he's your agent, I want him out of this city." Sherlock dismissed, "Send him back to prison—send him to another _country _if you have to. I just don't want him _here."_

"And why not?" Mycroft inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"You know why." Sherlock said.

"Because of John?" Mycroft scoffed, "Moran isn't going to try to kill John, he has no _reason_to!"

"Yes, he does." Sherlock countered, "It was John's report that lead to Moran being forced to leave the military on 'medical leave' by his own father who then had to retire. And I know he knows this because his father would have had access to all the documents, including the complaint John filed against him."

"Moran has been in London longer than John has." Mycroft informed, "He's had probably hundreds of chances to kill John, but he didn't do it. Why would he do it now?"

"Because _now_ he doesn't have a _job."_ Sherlock explained, _"Now _he isn't _free._ _Before,_ when he worked for the private military firm and for James Moriarty, he couldn't compromise them by taking revenge. But _now_ he's nothing but your prisoner. He has no reason to defend your interests—in fact, he has every reason to _undermine_ them, after what you've done to him."

"No reason?" Mycroft repeated, laughing emptily, "What about staying alive?"

"Do you really think that matters to people like him?" Sherlock questioned, matching Mycroft's empty laugh with a bitter smile and a shake of his head.

Mycroft sighed.

"…You've never _met _Sebastian Moran, I _have."_ He assured, "He's not the type to hold grudges, Sherlock. John is in no danger."

"I can't trust that." Sherlock stated, "I won't take chances."

The river of walking people, almost all strangers, in the tall and wide hallway parted where Sherlock and Mycroft stood still, rejoining eachother once they'd passed the two and joining in a communal moment of exchanged eye-contact, wondering just what two men surrounded by men in black suits were doing standing in the middle of the hallway.

But Mycroft had warned Sherlock about _caring,_ about _sentiment._

(…about people and attachment and dependence (and even peer-pressure, the shared and contagious stupidity…))

It slowed the mind down by overflowing it with irrational, illogical,_ incorrect _thoughts.

It made people _wrong._

And Sherlock was _stubborn,_ even when he was wrong.

There was just no reasoning with the emotional…

…but that didn't mean that Mycroft couldn't do _business_ with them.

A little _diplomacy_ was always good; even if it didn't _help_ it wouldn't _hurt._

"Do you really want Moran out of London?" Mycroft began.

The glaring Sherlock looked back towards him from where he'd been deducing the passersby (who'd obviously noticed them, by the way—so much for being 'discreet', Mycroft).

"Yes." Sherlock replied.

"Then you'll have to do something for me." Mycroft continued (to which Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes), "James Moriarty is—"

"Is not a threat." Sherlock completed for him, "You have his keycode. It's available online. Perhaps he even put it there himself so that you would leave him alone. There is nothing you could possibly want from him now and if you still want to waste your time trying to arrest him, don't involve me. I have better things to do than chase someone who's left the country and is causing no trouble."

"But he is 'causing trouble'." Mycroft disagreed, "My employees have tracked his location to Syria where he will be holding an auction to sell the Bruce-Pardington Plans."

"So?" Sherlock snorted, "Those plans are over two years old. And I'm sure you've made sure our country's missile-defense system has been updated since the time they were stolen. Anyone stupid enough to buy them will have their plans fail and then take care of your James problem by killing the man who sold them bad information."

"Even if the plans are outdated, selling them to foreign enemies is still treason." Mycroft reminded.

"You'll be saving his life if you prevent him from selling the plans." Sherlock added.

"I don't want James dead, I want him in custody." Mycroft responded.

"No, you just want to send me out of the country." Sherlock returned, "You know James isn't a threat but you're using him to distract me. What don't you want me to know about this time, Mycroft?"

"You can stay in London and find out..." Mycroft offered, "…or you can go to Syria and apprehend James, at which time I will return the _dangerous and vengeful _Sebastian Moran to his rightful place in a prison cell, protecting John from any harm he might seek to cause him."

Sherlock took a long breath, as if pausing in contemplation but Mycroft knew what Sherlock would choose.

His younger brother had chosen sentiment over logic.

John Watson over Jim Moriarty.

_Poor, stupid Sherlock…_

But Mycroft _had _warned him and so he didn't feel _too _bad—after all, he'd still be getting what _he_ wanted (Sherlock out of the way so Moran could catch Jim).

And as Sherlock took his long breath his studied his older brother's face, Mycroft was almost smiling smugly…

_("I know something you don't know.")_

…and so was_ Sherlock. _

_("I know something you don't know.")_

_("You don't know that I know.") _

He hadn't chosen sentiment over logic.

He hadn't chosen John Watson over Jim Moriarty.

He'd chosen _both. _

But both Sherlock and Mycroft hid their emotions from their expressions, staring blankly at each other as Sherlock agreed to Mycroft's deal.

Acquiescing to compromise, they _should_ have been _happy._

But emotion was just another synonym for stupidity, and so they _weren't._

(Well, at least they hadn't argued.)

* * *

Kitty Riley sat on the sofa of her living room, browsing websites on her laptop when she was supposed to be writing.

The public's interest in Sherlock Holmes had faded once he'd been dead ('dead') for about a month and after the _small_ panic caused by the three explosions (no casualties=boring, boring=low newspaper sales) in three buildings in three days three weeks ago had blown over (after blowing _up)_,she had nothing _interesting _write about.

Ever since she'd broken the _fraud!_detective and _actor!_criminal story, Kitty had her choice of assignments at the newspaper where she worked and she only ever chose the ones who would make the most money and make her _famous._

Kitty was supposed to be out searching for the next scoop, and she had been this past week, but today she'd woken up late (10:00 AM) and was lounging around her townhouse in her pajamas.

_Why?_

Because she had a new boyfriend _and_ a new interviewee.

(They were the same person, they were almost _always_ the same person—she didn't have time to date other than people she met while working.)

He was still asleep upstairs, although it was almost noon, since he was rich and high-ranking enough within the company he worked for to _just not show up_ whenever he felt like it.

When he did wake up, Kitty would interview him (which she _should_ have done the night before when they'd gone to dinner) and with this interview she was going to reignite the Sherlock Holmes story, perhaps even write a tell-all book…

…_once she actually started writing,_ of course.

That difficult task was the one thing that she _hated _to do.

And Kitty was checking her email (two new messages from people claiming to have been hostages of 'Jim Moriarty' (Richard Brook ('Richard Brook' (Jim Moriarty)) who worked for Sherlock Holmes) when she heard a knock at the front door.

Upon opening it, she saw someone she knew should have been in prison.

Kitty had covered the trial of Sebastian Moran, terrorist bomber, and had seen him escorted out of the courtroom in handcuffs.

She _should _have asked why he was free on the streets and standing in front of her, but instead she asked for an interview.

Why pass up a perfect opportunity?

Besides, _this_ Sebastian was taller and more muscular than her current interviewee who was a chubby banker named Sebastian Wilkes (who'd conveniently known Sherlock Holmes while studying at the same university as him and was willingly to talk about his dead ('dead') friend ('friend')).

Better not wake _him_ up.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Moran." Kitty greeted, with a wide smile, "Are you here for the interview, I've been expecting you."

She'd _hadn't,_ of course, but it sounded more _professional_ that way and when one sounded _professional_ people tended to do what one told them to.

"I need to search this house for Jim Moriarty." Moran stated.

He'd gotten right to the point and was not going to waste his time being interviewed.

" 'Jim Moriarty' wasn't _real,_ he was an actor named Richard Brook." Kitty spieled, "And he's dead now. Sherlock Holmes shot him before he jumped off the roof of that hospital."

Moran groaned.

"Just let me in." he demanded.

"I'll let you do whatever you want if you give me an interview, Mr. Moran." Kitty offered.

She leaned against the doorframe, effectively blocking Moran from entering her home but trying (and _failing)_ to be effective at _other things_, as well.

Moran rolled his eyes.

Jim had said he'd liked this woman, but he'd obviously been lying. There was _no way _he'd be hiding here, putting up with _this._

(And if Jim _was_ hiding here, then he would have run to the door upon hearing the voice of someone he could properly entertain himself at the expense of.)

Jim always had to be the biggest personality in the room.

He lived off shocking, annoying, scaring, hurting (or, at least making them feel very uncomfortable) and sometimes arousing them to get their reactions.

But his antics would never work on Kitty because she tried the same tricks (although not as well done and for different reasons) and would be too receptive to Jim's to give Jim the reaction he wanted (needed).

This Kitty Riley was _already _the second most annoying person Moran had met (second to Jim Moriarty, of course) and he'd just met her a few seconds ago.

Kitty twirled her dark orange hair, 'absentmindedly' (deliberately), and Moran disliked her _even more_ for making redheads look bad.

"…Nevermind." Moran grumbled, turning away from her to walk back down the hall and out of the townhouse.

"Wait!" Kitty called after him, but that only made him walk faster.

She'd have chased after Moran, but she heard her bedroom door creak open and footsteps upstairs.

Quickly, Kitty closed the door and spun around to look up at the still groggy Wilkes who watched her confusedly.

"Who was _that?"_ he asked.

"Oh, nobody." Kitty shrugged, "…Time for you interview, after some coffee?"

"Yeah, okay." Wilkes agreed, also shrugging.

And so Kitty pounced up the stairs towards the kitchen to make her new prey some coffee so she could bleed his information out him _(—metaphorically, _of course, she never had to actually torture her interviewees to get their stories. she always used much _friendlier _methods including (but definitely not _limited_ to) her words).

Because in one of the world's oldest stories (true? fictional?) all the animals went in pairs onto the ark, even the rats and the weasels.

* * *

Like they did almost every weekday, John and Molly sat across from each other in the crowded cafeteria at the hospital they now both worked in.

The ocean of scattered table was filled with schools of fish that sat together, the employees uniformly in blue uniforms, divided by job title and the visitors in their diverse plain clothes, divided by family.

Today, Molly and John were the only exception to this; he was a doctor and she was a laboratory technician, he was in his street clothes (having hurried here from his meeting with Mycroft) and she was in her uniform.

They were both nice people, they were just on different sides.

But they were friends ('friends' (friends?))…at least for the rest of the short lunch half-hour, the two workers could spare.

Molly sighed, smiling sadly as she looked up from her tray at John.

"Today is the last day I can eat lunch with you." She told him, making sure to sound both regretful and annoyed, "They're switching me to nightshift."

"They are?" John replied, surprised, "Why?"

Because she had _asked_ them to, because _Sherlock _had told her to stay away from John.

"I don't know." Molly said, "Probably because they're understaffed at night. They have a backlog of bloodtests needing to be done because of the trust merger. Some patients have been waiting months for results. I'm sure it'll only be temporary, until everything's been sorted out…but for now, they need me working at night."

John eyed Molly skeptically.

He wondered if Mycroft somehow and for some reason had something to do with this.

He wondered how much Molly knew about the (_supposedly _dead but _maybe_ still alive) Moriarty situation.

But then he shrugged and smiled sympathetically.

"Oh well, I'm sorry you've been switched and I'll miss you at lunch." John stated, returning his sandwich afterwards, "But I'm sure I'll see you around once in a while, we'll keep in touch."

"Y-yeah." Molly affirmed, smiling and nodding unconvincingly, then adding a more certain "Well both be very busy, of course, but I hope we'll have time." as a justifiable excuse for why his prediction wouldn't come true.

She wondered if John truly appreciated their 'friendship' and genuinely wanted to continue it, or if he was just watching her and trying to find out information on (the _supposedly_ dead but really still alive) Sherlock and Jim.

She wondered how much John _knew. _

Neither knew what the other knew, what the other was thinking and so the two 'friends' continued their last lunch of smiles and polite conversation in the overflowing hospital cafeteria.

* * *

Finding Jim Moriarty in London was like finding a needle in a haystack (and Jim _was_ a sharp and shiny one, unlike most of the dull and hazy-colored masses).

Moran would need a magnet.

With a '_magnet'_ the '_needle'_ would come to _him._

He couldn't use _Sherlock,_ because Mycroft would never put his little brother in danger and so was sending him to civil-war torn Syria to confront James and whatever terrorists that wanted to attack the United Kingdom, away from where he could be used to attract Jim's attention.

And he couldn't use _Molly,_ because Mycroft's employees were following her and so even if Moran was able to kidnap her without them stopping him, he'd still have violated his new employer's orders to protect her.

So Moran would have to use a different magnet.

He'd, regrettably, have to use _himself._

Oh joy.

* * *

It was twilight by the time Irene and Irene returned to Molly's apartment where they found Sherlock already packing the few belongings he had brought there (laptop, files stolen from Mycroft on Sebastian Moran, one change of clothes).

"We need to leave this flat." He told them, "Get your things together so we can be out of here within the hour."

"Already? But I was just getting comfortable…" Jim complained.

"Where will we go?" Irene asked.

She knew just the right angle to lean in the doorframe to complete a straight-lined triangle while accentuating her curves at the same time.

But all Jim saw was a wall blocking him from Molly's bedroom which Sherlock was inside.

Something just wasn't _right _about this situation.

Jim standing so close to Sherlock and yet a _woman_ (that's _The Woman_ to you, Jim!) of all things stood between them.

It was like the cliché love-triangle of a romance novel—except that none of the three were in love with each other and there was no inevitable happy ending.

Jim and Sherlock weren't _supposed_ to be 'friends', they weren't even supposed to be _working together. _

But they _were_ 'friends' (but not _friends)_ and they _were_ working together, all the while secretly planning against the other and knowing that the other was secretly planning against them.

The balance was _off._

Jim and Sherlock weren't supposed to be on the same side.

"_I'm_ going to Syria." Sherlock stated.

He turned to face Jim and Irene, standing from where he'd bent to lift the file box he'd stored in Molly's closet.

"Tell my James I say 'hi'." Jim guessed, pushing past Irene to enter the room and flop down onto Molly's bed, "…and tell his ex—_employee,_ of course—'hello' from me, as well, since he's the only reason you'd agree to waste your time with my boring big brother. You really think Sebby the sneaky sniper's gonna off your boy John?"

He snickered at the thought of Moran and John having a shootout in the middle of crowded downtown London…and the fact that the normally emotionless and logical Sherlock was overreacting because he cared about his friend.

"_No,_ I think he's going to kill _you."_ Sherlock corrected.

"We saw him at the inn, he interviewed the staff and Douglas Gordon." Irene added, "He said he was searching for you. "

"He's working for my brother now and he'll kill you if he sees you." Sherlock said, (to which Jim shuddered exaggeratedly in 'fear'), "That's why you'll be leaving the country tomorrow also."

"Really? And where does this surprise get-away take me?" Jim inquired.

"Argentina." Sherlock informed, "You know what you have to do there."

"And what about _me?"_ Irene demanded, folding her arms crossly, "Where am I going?"

She did _not_ like being ignored.

_At all. _

And although she preferred women, she'd always been offended when men weren't paying attention to her.

"Prison." Jim joked, "I think you'll like it there. Girls only."

And he was right, too.

"You'll be visiting certain prisoners in a women's facility." Sherlock explained, "I'll text you the details later._ Now_ we have to remove any evidence that we were ever here."

"Why?" Jim snorted, "The only thing little Molly'll do if we leave a mess is clean it up."

Still, Irene into the room, then stooping to remove some items from a dresser drawer across from the bed.

Jim wolf-whistled.

Irene would have glared angrily back at him, but she decided to ignore it instead (take it as a compliment and grin triumphantly to herself).

Sherlock _did,_ however, glare at Jim, who shrugged up at him confusedly until Sherlock gestured at him to get packing as well.

Jim hopped up from Molly's bed to help Irene retrieve her items from Molly's closet, having not brought much of his own stuff.

Sherlock watched on in disinterest as the two bonded over fashion and expensive clothing (and Molly's lack thereof, judging by the clothes she'd left behind when she moved temporarily to her sister's).

"You know what the funny thing about is?" Jim mused, turning from the closet to share his face with Sherlock and Irene.

Sherlock and Irene exchanged glances, and then shrugged back at Jim, shaking their heads.

Jim smiled.

"When I was trapped in Mycroft's upscale Alcatraz, it was Moran who helped me escape."

* * *

**Next chapter Molly and Jim will be reunited. **

**Don't worry.**

**lol.**

**I hope I can write the next chapter quicker, once I get into the swing of things.**

**Please review!**


	19. Mind Prison

**Hi, everybody!**

**College is going well so far, thanks to those who asked...but because of it I can't update as frequently as I once did.**

**I'll try for once every ten days or so, though, hopefully...**

**Thank you to everyone who is still reading and a HUGE thank you**** to all those who review (last chapter: Anonymouse, mvignal, Toby. Her Cat. Molly's Cat, Shenanigan, lesser mortal, Shay-of-Awe, My Beautiful Ending , MissusGages, phanpiggy, TheSmilingCat)!  
**

**You're my motivation and my smiles! **

**Thanks so much, I hope everyone likes the chapter!**

**Jim and Molly are back together as promised! **

* * *

**(7/11/12, 7:00PM) **

**COUNTDOWN: 24.5 hours remaining. **

After being informed by her landlord about the three squatters that had moved into her flat while she was away (after she assured him she hadn't been subletting), Molly unlocked the front door to her apartment as quietly as possible, pushing the door slowly as she snuck into the hall.

Tip-toeing across the carpet, Molly crept towards the sound of three voices (two of which she recognized).

She leaned against the wall by the open door to her bedroom, holding her breath as she overheard the conversation.

"You know what the funny thing about this is? When I was on Mycroft's upscale Alcatraz, it was Moran who helped me escape."

_Jim_

So Moran had_ helped_ him?!

_Impossible! _

"He helped you escape to undermine my brother's objectives, _obviously. _Probably on _your_ brother's orders."

_Sherlock. _

So he and Jim were in the same room and not _dueling to the death?!_

_Also_ impossible!

Shocked (and offended, too, because both Jim and Sherlock had 'forgotten' to mention that they were apparently working together—or had at least moved in together into _her _flat) Molly continued to listen, waiting for the third _(female) _voice to speak.

"Did you hear that?"

?

Molly didn't recognize the woman's voice, but she did freeze at her words.

The apartment was silent now.

…until Molly took a deep breath.

She knew they'd see her as soon as they turned the corner anyway—there was no point in trying to hide (she'd be heard) and no point in trying to run (she'd be heard).

There was no point in being _afraid._

And so Molly took a deep breath and jumped around the doorway into her bedroom to confront Jim, Sherlock and the woman they were with.

Jim, Sherlock and the woman they were with gaped in shock at Molly, who in turn gaped in shock back at them because although she'd made her dramatic entrance, she now had no idea what to _say._

The four just stood there in silent shock for a moment, staring around the room at each other until Irene finally spoke.

"You must be Miss Molly Hooper," she said, stepping towards Molly and smiling, "Jim and Sherlock have told me _all_ about you."

Molly instinctively backed away, though still smiling awkwardly to be polite.

"…Hello…?" She greeted, then trying a careful, "…And who are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, how rude of me!" Irene chastised herself, "My name is Irene Adler. You _might_ have heard of me."

"…I have…" Molly accepted, "It's uh…nice to meet you?"

"Nice to meet you, too," Irene returned, still approaching Molly who had backed herself into the opened door at this point, "You know, you're _much cuter _than I imagined. The boys must've left that detail out so they could keep you for themselves. How selfish of them, but I completely understand. You're so adorable I could just _eat you up—"_

"Back off, Adler, she's mine." Jim declared, moving between the cowering prey and the pouncing predator.

"Can't share? You're no fun at all." Irene pouted, folding her arms but backing away to

"Don't listen to The Woman; she's only acting like this to make an impression." Jim dismissed, "She even did a little strip-show for Sherlock when she met him. Didn't do the same for me—she plays favorites, you see, but she's alright once you get to know her."

Molly looked at Jim and then at Sherlock, making her best angry face and trying to share her glare equally between the two (because it was only fair).

"Why are you all here?" she asked, seriously.

Jim, Sherlock and Irene exchanged glances but were unable to decipher the opinions from eachother's faces of how much they should divulge, omit and _make up. _

"I can explain!" Jim troped in exaggerated urgency that almost masked the lack of an explanation in his words, "This isn't what it looks like!"

(Yes, but what _is_ it?)

"This isn't your concern." Sherlock tried, "For your own safety, you should stay out of this."

(And _'this'_ is…?)

Irene snorted, glancing over at Sherlock and Jim to roll her eyes and then turning towards Molly.

"If you two won't tell her the truth, then _I will."_ She declared, "Sherlock _hired _Mr. Moriarty and I to help him with some 'cases'. We're all one big happy family now."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Molly asked, muffling the emotion in her voice which made it almost a whisper.

_("Why don't you trust me?") _

She'd directed the question at Jim, who was the closest to her (both physically in the room and emotionally).

"The angel made me do it." Jim blamed, shrugging and then gesturing behind him at Sherlock.

Molly turned towards him, silently asking the same question with the confused, annoyed and _hurt_ look on her face.

_("Why don't you trust me?") _

"It was to keep you and Jim apart so that Mycroft's employees wouldn't find him." Sherlock explained, "They've been following you for weeks and they've followed you _here._ Now Jim can't exit this building or they'll see him and he'll be taken into custody. Now he can't do his job."

"…I'm sorry!" Molly exclaimed, the instant realization that she was putting Sherlock and Jim (and this Irene Adler woman) at risk just by being in the same room as them finally hitting her as soon as the shock of Jim and Sherlock working together had worn off, "I didn't know you were here. I wouldn't have come if I did…I can leave, if you want me to?"

She was already starting towards the door, hurrying to leave rather than continue this awkward confrontation.

She'd wanted to see Jim again, but not in front of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, she'd hoped to meet with him privately (so they could _talk, _of course).

"No." Sherlock stated, "You've carried at least two heavy bags, here. Presumably because you're moving back in. It would look suspicious if you left right after you arrived."

"How did you know?" Molly inquired, because she'd set her bags down outside in the hallway while she'd unlocked the door and left them there when she'd heard voices inside her home.

Her tone was reserved, lacking the awe at Sherlock's small deduction that she used to emit in bursts of exclamations and widened eyes.

Now the question was technical, she wanted to know how not to marvel at or unmask the 'magic' (science) trick but to understand.

To do it herself.

"Indentations in your jacket where the straps of the bags dug into your shoulders." Sherlock answered, almost solemnly.

He pointed to the clues with his eyes and nose rather than looking Molly in the face during one of the rare times she braved trying eye-contact with the man who dwarfed her (physical _and_ mentally).

Molly instinctively brought a hand to one of her sore shoulders, realizing that if she had worn her hair down Sherlock probably wouldn't have been able to deduce it from halfway across the room.

_(There were ways to defend herself, ways to fight back…)_

"You wouldn't get those if you moved into a building with a lift." Jim added, with a groan and an eye-roll as he leaned into the wall next to Molly, who glanced at him briefly before turning back to Sherlock who then glanced at Irene.

Irene stood up from the bed, going over to where Sherlock, Jim and Molly stood by the door.

"Sherlock, dear, I think it's time we left these two alone." She began, placing her hands lightly on the sides Sherlock's shoulders to steer him out of the bedroom, "Since Jim's going to have to stay in for the night anyway."

Sherlock nodded and continued towards the door, out of her loose grasp and out of the whole situation that he did _not_ have to be forced to leave.

Watching Sherlock walk away, Jim _attempted_ to eye Sherlock lustfully but just found himself missing the black suits Sherlock wore before he 'died' that emphasized his tall and skinny form_._ Jeans, sweaters and jackets just weren't the _same …_

(Jim had told Sherlock he was 'nothing' without him, but Sherlock was _also_ 'nothing' without his long dark coat.)

"Don't leave until at least thirty minutes after Molly's left for work tomorrow." Sherlock warned Jim, as he stood in the doorway waiting for Irene.

Irene followed Sherlock through the doorway, with Molly watching her and wondering how she managed to walk in heels that high without even wobbling (and on _carpet,_ too!).

"That's quite a while." She commented, in mock surprise and genuine amusement, "I do hope you don't get _bored."_

"I'm sure I'll be able to keep busy until morning." Jim assured, dryly, drumming his fingers on the indentations on Molly's jacket.

"Um, actually I'm working nightshift after today so I'm not going to go into work until tomorrow evening." Molly informed, craning her neck to look back up at him.

Irene chuckled, hovering in the doorway Sherlock had already disappeared through.

"What's so funny?" Jim snapped.

"Twenty-four hours." Irene said.

"So?" Jim questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"You wanted your woman so badly when you couldn't have her." Irene reminded, "Let's see if you still do now that you've got her in your hands."

"I'll show you just how badly I want her if you wanna stick around and watch." Jim retorted, with a snort, "If not, take your 'man' and get out."

"Don't tempt me or I might just stay." Irene threatened playfully as she continued out the bedroom door. She poked her head back into say, "And it really _was _nice to meet you, Miss Hooper. I hope we'll be seeing more of each soon. _Much more."_

Before Molly could respond to this (with words, her look of awkward discomfort responded immediately), Jim waved Irene out the door.

Jim and Molly listened to Irene and Sherlock walk silently down the hall and the out the front door of the flat.

Once they'd heard the door close, Jim of course wanted to scoop Molly into a dramatic reunion kiss that of course would lead to other dramatic reunion activities…

…but Molly had left her bags outside in the publicly accessible hallway, and since this _was_ a building without elevators she hurried back out to get them.

Jim watched in annoyed boredom as she attempted to lug the suitcases into her apartment with both hands while propping the door open with her foot.

Because Jim respected a woman's physical strength to lift heavy items and mental creativity to multitask, he didn't offer to help.

(After all, he wouldn't want to be _sexist.)_

"Unpack them later." Jim said when Molly had put the bags onto her bed and then sat down next to them so he couldn't just knock them off and out of the way.

"We need to talk." Molly began, standing up and facing where he stood by the dresser.

"…_oh god..." _Jim groaned, holding his forehead in his hand but then turning towards her and asking, "Do we really?"

(As if he didn't love to talk (and as if he didn't know how to multitask.))

"Yes." Molly affirmed, nodding, "I want to know what is going on. When I spoke to you and Sherlock separately, both of you acted like you were going to kill each other. Now I find out that you're working together and that neither of you wanted to tell me…Why don't you trust me?"

"Darling, it's nothing personal…" Jim sighed out the memorized cliché, "Just business."

"That's not an answer!" Molly exclaimed, "I want to know _why!"_

The cry had set free the feelings of anger and frustration (along with hurt and betrayed) that had been incubating for weeks now inside her and feeding them fresh and piping hot to the hungry Jim.

He knew she could only conceal her emotions for so long, he knew how Molly worked, so he was not surprised—and neither was she.

She'd given Jim this controlled explosion, and now he'd give her something in return.

Molly knew how this game was played; she knew how Jim worked.

It was business, too, yes, but it was also _so very personal. _

"Why _what?"_ Jim asked, seriously.

He wanted to know how much she already knew, see how much she'd been able to figure out before he volunteered anything…

…_and _he was stalling while he decided whether to shout back at her and scare her, laugh at her because she was 'cute when she was angry', or try to calm her down condescendingly.

Molly took a deep breath, returning to neutral.

"Why, for one thing, is Sherlock afraid?" she started (and what a way to start), "He didn't want me to be anywhere near John because safety concerns but he didn't ask his brother to put protection on him. If you and Sherlock are working together, then it's not you Sherlock is afraid of hurting John. So who?"

"You got all that but you haven't guessed who yet?" Jim replied, mockingly, "Come on, Molly, _guess._ I know you can do it."

He rocked back and forth on his heels in anticipation and smiled when Molly spoke.

"Do you mean Sebastian Moran?" she guessed and he nodded, "…but that doesn't make any sense. Why would Moran want to hurt John?"

"Something that happened in Afghanistan probably, they're both ex-military." Jim shrugged, "Sherlock had some secret file about it, wouldn't let me see."

"That doesn't mean that you didn't." Molly responded, knowingly.

Jim grinned.

"Turns out Mr. Discipline dabbled in serial murder and offed some lowrankers, and Mr. Moral dabbled in detective work and found him out." He chuckled, "Since Kandahar wasn't big enough for the both of them, they both got sent back to London."

"So Moran and John have both been in the same city for years, but Moran never did anything?" Molly considered, "Then why does Sherlock think he will _now?_ Or that Moran can't just find John another way?"

"Because he's in love and love makes people stupid." Jim declared, cheekily.

"_No…"_ Molly shook her head, "Sherlock would never be so irrational." She looked up, "…Don't you think that instead he could be afraid of what _John _would do if he saw Moran?"

Jim took a moment to process Molly's interpretation and decided that it _made sense._

He hadn't thought of this himself because he'd based his logic on the premise that it _wouldn't _make sense.

He didn't _want_ it to make sense.

Jim had wanted Sherlock to have fallen into the illogical tornado of emotion.

Jim had wanted to breathe in that whirling wind because he was always suffocating in his emotional vacuum and gasping for other people's air.

Disappointed since he couldn't eat logic the way he could eat feelings, Jim was still glad that Molly had figured out what was probably _the truth_ because he could_ use_ this information.

He_ would_ use this information.

…of course,_ Molly_ didn't need to know that.

"Hmm, _maybe…" _Jim feigned neutrality and contemplation with stretched words, "Either way, that was the reason you had to stay away from John and I had to stay away from you."

"But that's not a reason for why you didn't just tell me." Molly insisted.

"I told you I wanted to keep you out of this." Jim recounted, "And I thought you _wanted_ to be blissfully ignorant of what I do. You know, have me keep my work and my personal-life separate."

"That was back before I knew you and Sherlock were working together." Molly qualified, "I didn't want to be involved with you and him hurting each other—and whoever else happens to be around."

"Well Sherlock and I haven't made another suicide-pact as of yet, so you don't have to worry about _us_…" Jim reassured, "…but as for 'whoever else', I can't make any promises."

"What are you going to do?" Molly questioned, "What did Sherlock hired you and Irene Adler for?"

"Oh, just the usual stuff." Jim answered, "Illegal, immoral, criminal, fun…We're not out saving the world or anything, if that's what you're hoping for."

"I _was_ hoping for that, or at least that you weren't committing crimes again." Molly admitted, with an embarrassed and slightly sad laugh, "But I'll settle for the truth, I guess…"

And he'd give it to her, too, just for the beautiful _conflict _on her face.

The truth wouldn't resolve _that. _

No, it would only make it worse and so all the more beautiful.

Anything to keep the ugly neutral Molly tried to force herself to maintain from freezing across her expression.

"The truth is what I told you." Jim stated, then with the false solemnness of a stifled laugh added, "People will get hurt."

"Who?" Molly asked.

"You don't know them."

"Innocent people?"

"No such thing."

"_Uninvolved_ people, then? Bystanders?"

Jim shrugged, chuckling.

"Dunno. _Maybe…"_

"…Jim, you promised you wouldn't kill people anymore."

"Yes I did, and I _won't…_But _Sherlock_ never promised,_ Irene_ never promised."

"Sherlock wouldn't—"

"Yes he would and you know it. He'll do whatever's necessary to get the job done. He's not one of the 'good guys' and neither am I now just cause I'm working with him...But the targets are criminals so that makes it all okay, _right?_ Naughty little girls and boys _deserve _to be punished and anybody who gets 'caught in the crossfire' is just 'acceptable losses', _right? _Because that's what militaries do and everybody calls them 'heroes'."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

Molly sighed.

Jim smirked.

"I'll make coffee." She said because this was going to be a long conversation and a long night.

Jim followed Molly into the kitchenette, sitting down at the counter to watch her go through what was a morning ritual at night.

What a backwards world was Molly's now and Jim was proud at how easily he'd turned it upside down (but _the earth is round_ and so there if no real 'top' and 'bottom', just different angles of looking at the same thing).

"So why do you care if people you don't know get hurt?" Jim questioned, casually as he sat on a stool leaning against the kitchen counter, "People you didn't even know were alive until they've died?"

Molly's back was turned to him as she struggled with the machine (which Sherlock had used to cook chemicals for a poison in (he'd cleaned it afterwards, of course (hopefully))).

"There's not a reason for it." She admitted, "People just do—normal people, at least. I know it doesn't change anything, it doesn't help but you can't control how you feel."

"_I can."_ Jim declared, smugly.

It made Molly tense a bit, moving now more awkwardly because she knew she was being watched.

If Jim cared about her, it was because he_ wanted_ to.

That was _good, _because that meant he liked her enough to want to…but it also meant that he could stop caring whenever he felt like it.

Molly knew Jim kept her this unsure and insecure about his feelings towards her on purpose so he could control her, which meant that he deemed her worth controlling and keeping, which meant that she shouldn't be as unsure and insecure. But if she didn't let Jim control her, then he would leave her and maybe even kill her which meant that she had to be unsure and insecure—or at least _act_ that way.

The logic was circular and twisted and because Molly was running in circles and twists, she'd never escape.

And she didn't want to.

She couldn't imagine her life without Jim (or Sherlock even), she couldn't imagine her life returning to normal.

Well, actually, she c_ould_ imagine and the image was boring, lonely and unhappy.

It was alright before she'd know anything else, but now that she'd had the taste and the knowledge, she couldn't go back.

"Just because you don't care, doesn't make it alright to kill people." Molly replied, speaking to the coffee-pot.

"That's the point." Jim snorted, "I don't care. Sherlock doesn't care. It doesn't matter."

"But it_ does_ matter." Molly disagreed, finally turning to face him as the coffee began to brew, "Even if people don't matter to you—or Sherlock, they still matter. The world doesn't just belong to you."

"The world belongs to whoever has the ability to take it." Jim stated, "We have always been and always will be in the most primal state of nature. People mistake complications and distractions for 'civilization' but we're all just animals. Everyone's just trying to get what they want by doing what they can—the 'strong' just get it more than the 'weak' do and some people are just_ luckier_ than others."

"Not everyone is so selfish…" Molly disbelieved, "Although it might be impossible for _you_ to believe, some people actually _want _to help others."

"Because it makes them feel good." Jim dismissed, "They wouldn't do it if it didn't—unless, of course, they want something."

"So what?" Molly countered , "It's better to feel good from doing good things, rather than the opposite. And why does it even matter why somebody did a good thing, as long as they did it?"

"Why does it matter why—or _how,_ or _who,_ or even _when_—somebody _dies,_ then?" Jim returned, "Everybody does eventually. And it could happen any time to anyone for any reason—no reason at all, even. So why does _that _matter?"

Jim didn't care about these questions or their different answers but he_ did_ like to play 'devil' as much as he liked to self-advocate.

After all, if he was going to be trapped in Molly's apartment for twenty-four hours he had to have_ something_ fun to do. Conversation, argument, and qausi-philosophical discussion were just ways of killing time.

"_Because it just does."_ Molly stated simply, "I understand that it's not always logical and it's sometimes hypocritical but it's how I feel and how most people do."

"That means 'good' and 'bad', 'right' and 'wrong' are all just a matter of perception, opinion." Jim interpreted.

"Yes." Molly confirmed, "…but just because they're emotional, doesn't mean they're stupid."

"No, it just means they don't exist." Jim redefined, shrugging.

"Maybe not to _you,_ or to Sherlock…but if you believe in them they're real."

Jim smiled.

"Ah, but what _is_ 'real'…?"

Molly rolled her eyes, sighing and turning away from him.

"Coffee's ready." She said.

Then she reached for a cabinet door but Jim was already up and had opened a different one, retrieving two mugs.

He (or Sherlock or Irene (but probably him)) must have moved them from their proper place (as well as moved other items around in the kitchen) to the cabinet above electrical-outlet the coffeemaker plugged into_—specifically to set up this situation?_

(Yes.)

It was staged perfectly so that Molly was backed into the corner between the counter and its perpendicular wall with nowhere to go but towards Jim.

And with Jim there was never much difference between intimacy and intimidation, he just stood so close and that meant_ everything_ (goodand bad, affectionate and threatening, supportive and destructive).

He could slap her or embrace her with his hands, but they were both holding cups and so Molly would have nothing from Jim for now.

…or would she?

"Can I kiss you?" Jim asked.

He knew he didn't_ need_ to ask permission and he never had before, and he knew she knew that.

But because he had never asked permission before, she had never needed to give it to him—or _refuse._

And they both knew _that,_ too.

What did it mean if she said _'yes'_ and she said it _outloud? _

Did it matter that she knew he still would if she said 'no' and that he knew she knew this?

"You know you don't have to ask." Molly said.

"I know, but I _did."_ Jim said, "So what do you say?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does to you. And that's why I asked."

It was just another game.

_Word-association._

A 'yes' wasn't just a 'yes'; it was now an acceptance of Jim and everything he'd ever done.

And a kiss wasn't just a kiss; it was now blessing given to Jim and everything he'd go on to do.

"What if I say 'no'?" Molly ventured.

"What if you do?" Jim ventured further, "But then _don't _run out of the building away from me and get your government-issued guards outside to protect you?"

Logic was back again because actions spoke louder than words and all their different meanings.

And the actions said that Molly'd been condoning Jim's behavior by default every moment she spent willingly with him.

_(Shut up, actions!)_

"Then you'd kiss me anyway." Molly 'deduced'.

But Jim just set the cups on the counter.

He stepped backwards to allow Molly to pass if she so chose, gesturing towards the path she could take away from him if she wanted to.

Instead, she took the pot of coffee from the coffeemaker filled the two mugs; one that Jim could take if _he_ wanted to, with room for cream and sugar in Jim's if _he_ so chose—and if there was any left in the flat.

(Jim could be sweet and watered-down—or whatever flavor he added, but Molly would drink bitter every time and taste real.)

However, Jim just took the cup and chugged down the hot coffee (causing Molly to wince as he most likely burned his tongue).

He didn't need cream and sugar when he had Molly.

"You think that if you want me, you're as bad as I am." Jim stated, as if he'd read Molly's mind (which he basically had), "You think if you're not afraid of me, then you're responsible for everything I've done and everything I _will _do. Don't you, Molly?"

He'd wanted her to feel it and then_ admit_ it.

If she did, would he tell her it wasn't true? And if he did, would_ that_ even be true?

Molly sighed sadly, guiltily, looking down at the now (all-but) empty mug hanging loosely in Jim's hand.

"…Yes." She conceded, with a regretful but _not _reluctant nod.

And so he kissed her.

* * *

**(7/12/12, 1:30PM)**

**COUNTDOWN: 6 hours remaining. **

Irene knew a prison warden (knew what he _liked)_ and made a damn sexy (fake) lawyer if she did say so herself (which she _didn't_—but a few prison guards _did)._

The women's prison looked much the same as a prison for men.

Undecorated walls of gray concrete that confined its prisoners to a life of anonymity, rules and boredom.

Still, this was a minimum-security facility and so it wasn't meant to suck the hope out of their lives or anything, most prisoners would eventually get released and so the prison was merely the uncomfortable corner that a child got sent to when put into time-out.

Irene sat waiting in the visiting room which provided several tables, chairs with cushions and guards watching her every move.

_Male_ guards.

And when men watched women, they _watched_—they didn't pay much attention to what was being said.

Irene smiled to herself as she adjusted her skirtsuit (deliberately just a little too short and too tight—but still classy, of course) which stood out amongst the baggy jumpsuits of the prisoners and the casual clothing of their visiting families, mostly older mothers disappointed in their criminal daughters and children being raised by their grandmothers.

(No husbands visiting wives, the way wives visited husbands. Criminal women apparently didn't get the same love that criminal men did.)

Finally, Irene's first 'client' was escorted into the room and allowed to sit down across from her at the table in a comfortable chair.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Wenceslas." Irene greeted.

The former art gallery director sighed.

"I will get out in less than a year." She stated in her accented English, "I don't see why I should talk to you. I don't even know who you are."

"I'm a business woman, just like you." Irene informed, "And as business women we both know that even when you are released, you'll never work in the art business again—or be_ anything_ more than cheap, unskilled labor, with your criminal record. No one will ever trust you because the lost painting you 'found' was a forgery."

"…what do you want?" Wenceslas asked, guardedly, "You would not have come here just to tell me what I already know. Why are you here?"

"I want the location of Oscar Dzundza." Irene answered.

"I already told the police, I told Sherlock Holmes, I told _everyone_ I don't know anything about him!" Wenceslas asserted, "I did not hire him and I had nothing to do with those murders. It was Moriarty who—"

"Moriarty isn't real." Irene interrupted, voice and expression _almost _perfectly smooth, only just_ hinting_ at the truth at their corners, "He was an actor."

"Still, I _don't know."_ Wenceslas insisted, "You're trying just to implicate me in that hitman's killings and extend my sentence."

"No, I'm trying to help you." Irene countered, "If you tell me what you know and do as I ask, then I can guarantee not only your freedom but the restoration of your reputation—_and_ your wealth."

"How will you do that?" Wenceslas laughed, "Magic? Miracle?"

"My associates and I have our ways." Irene alluded, mysteriously.

"And who are your 'associates'?" Wenceslas questioned, suspiciously, "Why should I trust anything you say when you haven't even told me your name?"

"Names mean nothing, they're too often and too easily changed." Irene dismissed, "Who I am and who my associates are aren't limited to any _one_ identity."

"You realize that telling me this only makes me trust you less." Wenceslas pointed out.

"It shouldn't." Irene disagreed, "It proves that I won't lie to you…I'll only _omit_ some things, sometimes. It's for _your_ protection as well as mine. The less you know, then happier you'll be."

"Moriarty told me that, as well, and now I'm in prison and he isn't real." Wenceslas informed, "Tell me how you will return to me what I've lost and then I will consider telling you what I know."

"The scandal that destroyed your career was that your Vermeer was a fake." Irene responded, "It was Sherlock Holmes that discovered this and since you've been in prison for the past year and a half, I'll inform you that _he too_ is now a 'fake'. The credibility of all his detective work is being questioned and you can use this to your advantage—especially because I can get you the real Vermeer painting."

"How?" Wenceslas asked.

"_Don't_ ask for specifics." Irene warned, "Just do what say and tell me what you know about the contract-killer Oscar Dzundza."

"Like I said before, I don't know anything about the murders." Wenceslas replied, then taking a deep breath, "…But I do know something."

"Tell me." Irene commanded.

"It's just _stories,_ really, rumors…I never knew the killer's name until I was told by authorities here in England." Wenceslas began, "As you must already know, I was born in Czechoslovakia, before it divided into two separate countries. There was a strict dictatorship that beat down any form of resistance or rebellion. And there was an…_urban legend,_ so-to-speak, of a seven foot tall man—_a monster_—who hid in sewers and dark alleyways by day and stalked the streets of cities at night, killing anyone who disagreed with the government. They called him 'The Golem'. No one had any proof that this person actually existed but there were always people who died without any explanation or evidence left behind and so people talked, _whispered_…but anybody who spoke out was _silenced."_

"What happened to The Golem?" Irene questioned.

"Everyone believed he was an agent of the government, perhaps part of the secret police." Wenceslas explained, "But when The Czech Republic and Slovakia split peacefully, the government no longer had need for The Golem's services. They tried to kill him but he escaped and became a killer for hire in order to survive. Anything more about him I don't know. I immigrated to the United Kingdom right after Slovakia gained independence. Apparently he must have come here as well, but I was not aware and I've never seen him. I didn't even know he was real until I was told he killed the security guard at my gallery and an astronomy professor at an observatory."

Irene listened to Wenceslas's story, nodding as if she accepted it as truth.

But _truth,_ like everything else, was never absolute and Irene sensed _omission_ in (or, rather, _not_ in) the other woman's words.

And _lies._

Still, this information was _almost_ enough to go on. Irene just needed one _more_ thing…

"When you're free, have the real painting and your gallery back…" she checked, "…are you willing to publically maintain that you never sought help from the 'consulting criminal' 'Moriarty'? That that was all a lie Sherlock Holmes made up, along with the Vermeer being a forgery? That Holmes forced you to admit to the crimes or else he'd frame you for the murders as well? "

"Of course." Wenceslas affirmed, "…Once you get me my life back. If you deliver what you're promising, then it will be in my interest to tell that story. But I do have to wonder…why is this in _your _interest?"

Irene smiled.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Wenceslas." She thanked, "But it looks like our visit is over for the day."

Irene gestured to behind Wenceslas, who looked around to see a guard approach.

"Come with me." He ordered.

Reluctantly, Wenceslas stood up.

While she was being escorted out of the room, she took one last look at Irene who waved goodbye but remained at the table as if she was waiting for someone else.

Which she _was._

As she was brought through the door by the guard, Wenceslas saw another woman being brought into the visiting room by another guard.

Irene's _second_ 'client'.

Wenceslas recognized her as a prisoner who'd started serving her sentence around the same time as she had.

Another client of 'Moriarty' (who may or may not have actually existed), Mrs. Monkford, the wife of a banker who'd faked his death and been exposed by Sherlock Holmes.

_He'd_ escaped to a foreign country but she, as well as the owner of Janus Cars, another 'Moriarty' client that helped people _disappear, _who were in England had gotten convicted of the crimes.

Now Mrs. Monkford was _not _happy about this.

Her husband was free and wealthy in Colombia, living it up despite being 'dead', while _she _was stuck in cold and rainy London, _in prison!_

(He was probably cheating on her, too. It _had _been almost two years now.)

Mrs. Monkford recognized Irene Adler from the news (wasn't she that dominatrix who'd had a threesome with a famous author and his wife or something?) and Irene didn't even have to offer her anything to give up the location of her husband.

"Medellin." She stated, "It's by the mountains. Ian's being protected by some people there. They work for a rival company to the one that owned the bank he used to work for. I think they might've hired him, too, and he's giving them information. Basically, he's betraying his country by giving those foreigners information from his old job. "

(Actually, he was giving information about one multi-national corporation to another multinational corporation.)

Still, Irene _did_ offer Mrs. Monkford something in exchange for this information (other than revenge against her now estranged and probably unfaithful husband)…an early release from prison and a whole lot of money.

The story (because that's all it was, just a story) was simple (to people like Irene or Sherlock or Jim—less so to those less intelligent).

Sherlock Holmes killed Ian Monkford.

Sherlock Holmes framed Mrs. Monkford and Janus cars for the 'fake' (real ('fake')) murder.

Sherlock Holmes solved the crime, got recognition and renown.

Mrs. Monkford and Janus Cars owner, Mr. Ewart, _got arrested. _

…But Sherlock Holmes was outed as a _fraud._

Every case he'd ever solved was now _also_ a fraud—including the Monkford case.

Soon, Irene told Mrs. Monkford, Ian Monkford's body ('body' (body?)) would be found with evidence supporting Sherlock Holmes as the killer.

Because Ian Monkford _couldn't possibly_ have faked his death if he was _actually dead ('dead' (dead?)),_ Mrs. Monkford and Mr. Ewart would have to be released from prison.

Mrs. Monkford could go back to playing the grieving widow…with her life insurance payout to comfort her.

And despite the ambiguity of whether the character of her husband survived this story all the way to its happy ending, Mrs. Monkford eagerly agreed to Irene's plan.

A lie had gotten her into this mess, so maybe a different lie could get her out.

(Because the truth, in this case, would not set her free.)

Anyway, what did she have to lose?

"_Nothing."_ Irene assured her, "You have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

And once Irene was done with her job for the day, she left the women's prison never once considering the fact that she belonged inside there as much as any of the other prisoners did—if not _more._

But prison was for the _little people,_ not people like _her._

_Never_ people like her.

…Never...

* * *

**(7/11/12, 11:30PM)**

**COUNTDOWN: 20 hours remaining. **

Molly had asked Jim to help her stay awake all night so that she could sleep all day and be refreshed for working the nightshift the next night.

Now she knew how that must have sounded but there were just some things that were impossible even to the 'magical' and multi-talented Jim.

And so while it was Molly who'd asked for Jim's help keeping herself awake, it had become Molly helping Jim keep from getting bored.

"Got any board games?" Jim asked as he flipped through television channels at an excessive rate with the remote from the couch, "Because I'm_ bored_…Get it?"

Ha. Ha.

He glanced an expectant grin back at Molly who was too preoccupied with searching the kitchen for food to give him her full attention.

Jim only had to stay half an hour after Molly left her flat, so that he wouldn't be seen by Mycroft's employees who followed her everywhere.

Molly feared that if she went out and got anything, Jim would be gone by the time she came back.

She hadn't seen Jim in a while and she only had until she went to work tomorrow night to spend with him before he left again for _who-knows-how_ long.

"Get it?" Jim asked again, muting the volume when he hadn't heard Molly respond.

"Get what?" she asked, finally turning around to face him confusedly.

"…Nevermind." Jim grumbled, then sinking down into the sofa.

Irene was _right. _

Jim was bored—and _Molly _was _boring. _

Chasing after Molly while everyone (Sherlock, Irene, Mycroft, James, Moran, circumstances) tried to keep them apart was fun for Jim but once they were together there was nothing to do.

_Boring. _

Jim couldn't even argue with Molly because she'd surrender every time before it actually got _interesting_ to avoid confrontation and even the times when she did partake in the game of argument, he always knew what she was thinking and what she'd say before she said it (or even knew she was going to say it).

_Boring. _

How did Sherlock not get bored with John back when they lived together(—_especially_ if, as John always insisted, they were not having sex)?

…oh yeah.

Sherlock could _leave; _go out, solve cases, and chase criminals so that his mind and his body wouldn't waste away into nothingness due to lack of challenging stimulation.

Jim was _trapped _in Molly's boring flat.

The only thing that kept Jim from _exploding_ was that he could see the end of this _torture _twenty hours away.

Time was moving slowly, yes, but it was still moving.

"Are you okay?"

Jim looked up from where he was sulking deep inside the couch cushions at Molly who was standing over him looking as confused, concerned and slightly creeped-out as she always did around him.

He wondered if he could scare her into thinking he wanted to kill her again, lock her inside her own flat and chase her around carrying a kitchen knife or something for a while. He wondered if he did, if he could then convince her it had all been a joke when he'd gotten bored of it and get her to forgive him.

Knowing Molly, he probably _could._ She'd forgiven him for worse, after all…

"Where's that cat of yours?" Jim inquired, sitting up suddenly and scanning the room.

"He's still at my sister's." Molly answered, "Matthew cried when I tried to take him away. He's never had a pet before, and once the baby comes Beth and Thomas'll be so busy that Matthew will need someone else to keep him company."

"So you willingly gave up your pet to some kid? Just like that?" Jim interpreted, flatly, "…You're such a _pushover,_ Molly."

"I didn't give Toby up, I'm going to get him back later." Molly countered, "And Matthew isn't 'some kid', he's my _nephew._ I've got a right to spoil him, don't I? Especially since Beth is so strict now…"

"Making up for the wild indiscretions of her youth?" Jim commented, "She'll regret it once her sheltered little prince realizes he's really a prisoner and rebels."

"Matthew is a good boy." Molly asserted, "Once Beth has the baby and gets settled, I'll get him a pet of his own so I can take Toby back. A hamster, maybe, or a guinea pig…something soft that he can play with. What do you think?"

"Get him a snake or something." Jim replied, offhandedly in idle sarcasm as he leaned back onto the sofa lazily.

"…I don't think Beth'll go for that." Molly laughed lightly, taking his words as a joke (which she hoped they were).

She attempted to sit down on the sofa next to Jim, but he didn't move to make room for her and so she sat scrunched uncomfortably on its arm, with her knees to her chest.

The television was still on but the sound was muted, Molly examined the screen but didn't recognize the show.

"What're you watching?" She asked Jim.

"You." He said, eyeing her, "I really hoped you'd be less boring than the commercials."

"I can _try…"_ Molly tried, "What you want me to do?"

"_Hmm…"_ Jim mused, humming as he thought, "…Strip show, maybe?..._No._ You already did_ that_ before…"

Molly gulped as she remembered their evening spent in basement of the abandoned mansion.

Jim closed his eyes and sighed happily, revisiting the fond memory.

When he opened his eyes again, Molly spoke.

"We could watch a movie…?" she suggested, quickly changing the unspoken subject.

"Boring." Jim dismissed, "…We could play Russian Roulette. I think I've got a gun around here somewhere."

He reached under a couch cushion, rummaging around until he pulled out a weapon so quickly that Molly fell backwards off her makeshift seat in shock.

She stayed down, peaking over the arm of the sofa at Jim who was now shaking the gun.

"…no bullets…" he mumbled, disappointed.

Once he'd tossed the gun across the room and it had landed on the carpet in a corner far away from her, Molly decided it was safe to stand back up.

Now there was an open cushion next to Jim and Molly jumped onto to it before he could stretched out his legs again.

He did anyway, this time in the opposite direction so that he had laid his head in her lap.

Jim grinned up at Molly when she awkwardly attempted to stroke his hair.

"Tell me another story." He requested, "Like you did when we were trapped in the back of that van. You can pretend I'm gonna kill you if you bore me and I can pretend to kill you if you do."

"You already know everything about me, there's nothing left to tell." Molly refused, "…When are you going to tell me anything about yourself?"

"Like what?" Jim raised an eyebrow as if he genuinely didn't know what she meant.

"Like…like your past, I guess." Molly clarified.

"You wouldn't like it." Jim snorted.

"I don't care." Molly stated.

"Oh, but you_ do_ care." Jim countered, "That's the thing. You care too much and hearing about all the _fun_ I had hurting _poor innocent people_ will just break your bleeding heart."

"I don't care." Molly repeated, "I want to know."

"Well, you've always been a bit of a masochist, haven't you?" Jim considered, "But I don't play along in interrogations. Gotta keep at least _some _of the mystery, leave a little something up to the _imagination…"_

"You don't trust me." Molly inferred, disappointedly.

"I don't trust _anyone."_ Jim corrected, sitting up and then turning to face her, "So don't go thinking you're special, my dear, and it isn't like _you_ trust _me _either."

"I don't trust you because you don't _want_ me to trust you." Molly responded, "You're not …_consistent._ I never know what to expect. But _you_ know how_ I_ feel about you and I'm sure you probably know everything I'd ever do."

"That's because I know _you,_ Molly." Jim explained, "Your past, your personality, you're always so formulaically predictable. Sure, that makes you boring but it also makes things easier for me, which is nice, I suppose…I don't tell people things about myself because the more you know about a person, the more you can predict about them and the more you can predict about them, the more you can _control._ I don't want anybody controlling me."

"I'd never try to control you!" Molly declared, "I doubt I'd even be _able_ to."

"You're _not." _Jim confirmed, "But you would if you could."

"No, I wouldn't." Molly disagreed, shaking her head, "You know I'm not that kind of person, Jim, you know me. You know you can trust me."

Jim chuckled, also shaking his head.

"Yes, Molly, I know you. I _know_ you…but I can't _trust_ you." He sighed, I know you and you'd do everything in your power to stop me from, well_, being me _and so I've got to be _so careful_ that I never let you have any."

So Jim was _afraid_ of Molly?

Afraid that she'd somehow be able to stop him, somehow be able to_ change_ him?

She'd proven that ability once, when she'd bargained both their lives in exchange for him not killing, and he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

But if Molly was really such a risk to Jim, why didn't he just kill her or leave her?

He definitely proven_ that _ability plenty of times…but he'd never gone through with it and he'd always come back.

_Why?_

Because Jim had 'always been a bit of a masochist', too, hadn't he?

He flirted with danger and never took 'no' for an answer.

He played 'evil' so he could bring out the good in gray Sherlock, and like mixing chemicals (acids and bases) they could balance eachother out into neutrality and nothingness.

John had changed the equation, but then so had Molly and everything was supposed to be _perfect…_

But Sherlock had never cared about Jim as much as he'd cared about John and Jim had never cared about Molly as much as he'd cared about Sherlock.

Yet Sherlock was away from John, working with Jim and Jim was away from Sherlock, spending time with Molly.

The balance was off.

In fact, it had _always_ been off.

But The Game was still on and as long as it was, Jim could fix it.

(That _was_ his job, after all fixing things (and breaking them.))

"I don't want to hurt you." Molly said, even though she was sure Jim already knew this and _wasn't_ sure if she even actually could.

"I know." Jim smiled, "You want to _save_ me and that's _so much worse." _

Instead of replying with words to Jim (because there was nothing to say at the point, or rather, too many things to say that she didn't have the words for) Molly retrieved the remote from crevice in the couch cushions and with it turned back television's sound.

Jim raised an annoyed eyebrow at this until he saw that Molly wasn't watching the screen but watching _him._

On the screen, the commercials had stopped and a movie with an exciting and intelligent plot, interesting casting and characters, and beautiful costuming and scenery was playing.

Molly and Jim didn't watch it.

* * *

**(7/12/12, 1:30PM)**

**COUNTDOWN: 6 hours remaining. **

Meanwhile, in a maximum security prison for men with concrete walls of a hopeless gray where people wasted away their lives (life sentences) until death there were two options a prisoner could 'chose' between.

Living in the constant danger and violence of general population or getting sent to solitary confinement and being completely alone.

Both were torture, both were _insane…_

…but neither were something that the prisoners didn't deserve for the brutal crimes they had committed (murders, rapes, beatings).

_(…Right?)_

Well, Fred thought so anyway.

And Fred was one of those prisoners.

He spent his days in isolated in a small, dark cell where his bland meals were slid under the door, his only glimpse of another human-being the flash of a gloved hand.

The room was metal and the smell of it was the same as the taste of blood in his throat, sore and dry from talking.

Fred didn't talk because he had nobody to talk to.

Except himself.

But he didn't like himself very much and so he didn't talk to him.

He did talk to the guards, however, when light broke into the dark cell and two silhouettes pulled him from the concrete floor, out of the room and through the gray halls.

"Good morning—or is it afternoon? Or night?" (cough, cough.) "...Anyway, good day to you both. Where are you taking me? Where am I going? Where am I?"(cough, cough.) "What day is it today? Where am I going? What is going on? How are you two today?"

(cough, cough.)

(cough, cough.)

_Silence. _

The guards didn't answer Fred's questions.

It was against procedure to speak to prisoners in solitary confinement.

And so they didn't speak.

It _also_ was against procedure to give an unscheduled, off the books appointment to an unnamed man.

And so they didn't speak.

And so Fred didn't speak.

His question of where he was going was answered when the guards dropped him off in an interrogation room with a metal table and a two-way window.

He sat in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs and would not face the window.

Still, he felt the eyes watching him and waited in silence until another person—not a guard, and not a prisoner—a _visitor,_ entered the room.

Outsiders were always unnerved by prisons. If someone wasn't, then that someone wasn't an outsider.

But Fred wasn't picky when it came to visitors, when it came to people.

Anybody but _himself _would do.

He didn't know how long he'd been in solitary, been in prison all together, but he hadn't had a visitor in all that time.

That changed when Mycroft Holmes stepped into the interrogation room, glancing around before looking directly at Fred.

"H-hi." Fred greeted, nervously but also excitedly, waving slightly.

Even if this was someone come to interrogate him (or beat him up (or _kill_ him)), he wouldn't complain.

At least it was _someone. _

At least it wasn't _himself._

Mycroft flipped on the second light for the room, causing Fred to wince at the piercing brightness.

He had to step around the metal table to the other side in order to face him.

This surprised Mycroft because he was accustomed to prisoners sitting where they could see the door _(and_ the mirror that they knew to be a window they could be watched through).

"Good afternoon, Mr. Wiggins." Mycroft greeted.

He didn't sit down.

Fred almost didn't respond to the name, it had been so long since he'd heard it and he'd never referred to himself by his last name.

Fred wasn't even his _real_ first name, it was just something he'd seen in on television and stolen, the way his life and his name had been stolen from _him._

"What day is it today?" Fred asked, looking up at Mycroft.

"The twelfth of July, two-thousand twelve." Mycroft answered, matter-of-factly, "It's been twenty years."

"Okay." Fred nodded, "So how are you today, sir?"

Mycroft was taken aback by the inquiry, but answered "I'm doing very well, thank you." with a polite smile, even adding, "You?"

"I am." Fred answered, simply.

(And if he didn't sound so damn serious about it (without any snark or sarcasm), Mycroft would've feared that he had another _Jim_ on his hands, already trying to distract from the purpose of the interrogation with existential conversation before he even knew what it was.)

"You are." Mycroft accepted, cautiously because he was unsure what to make of his interogatee.

He was probably crazy.

But _how_ crazy?

And _what kind_ of crazy?

"I'm guilty, you know, if that's what you're here to talk about." Fred stated, "I admitted it when I was arrested and I'll tell you again. I'm guilty, I'm a killer and I'm _nothing._ I should be dead. I killed but they don't let me kill _myself._ Every time I die they bring me back. I _should _be dead but they don't let me die. Why don't they let me die?"

"Because some fates are worse than death, I assume." Mycroft assumed, "They want you to suffer."

'_They'_ wasn't just the prison staff anymore, they didn't care.

'They' was the jury of peers that had convicted Fred for what he did, 'They' was the British public that hated Fred for what he did, 'They' was _the world._

'They' was also Fred.

(And they were always right.)

"I deserve it." Fred acknowledged, "I deserve it for what I did."

"And what did you do?" Mycroft inquired, curiously (although he already knew).

"…_you know_ what I did." Fred said,_ "Everybody_ knows."

"Tell me anyway." Mycroft shrugged.

"I don't want to." Fred refused, sinking into the chair and half hiding beneath the table, " don't want to talk about it."

"Now, I thought you said you _deserved _to suffer…" Mycroft reminded, _almost_ smirking.

"I do." Fred affirmed, staring down at the familiar grayness and shadows beneath the table, rather than up at Mycroft and the light.

"Then tell me." Mycroft requested again, "Tell me what happened that night._ Everything_ that happened."

"I'll tell you." Fred agreed, "…but after I do, you have to do something for me."

"I'll get you released if you tell me the truth." Mycroft offered.

"_I want to be free…"_ Fred mused, "…but not from here." he gestured around at the metal walls, "No, I want to be free from _here."_ he tapped his skull with two fingers, _"Can you do that for me?" _

Mycroft examined Fred for a long moment.

He considered what the prisoner was asking for, and then he considered what the prisoner would provide in return.

"Yes." He agreed, with a solemn sigh, "I can…Now tell me your story."

* * *

**(7/12/12, 4:30AM)**

**COUNTDOWN: 15 hours remaining. **

Jim eventually _did_ just knock Molly's bags of the bed and out of his way, but what neither of them did was change the sheets.

Later, Molly noticed the unfamiliar scent(s), sniffing a pillowcase confusedly.

"Irene." Jim explained, "And Sherlock too, at least once—and at the same time. They swear they didn't have sex, though."

"…oh, okay…" Molly accepted, snuggling back into the pillow and closing her eyes.

(What?! He says 'Sherlock' and she snuggles into the pillow?! _Oh no she didn't!)_

"Oh, no you don't!" Jim griped, "Don't you fall asleep on me now."

Dramatically, he threw the covers off the bed, causing Molly to shiver and curl up into a ball.

Jim, who was already sitting up, glanced around her well-lit bedroom for something to throw.

There was nothing worthy within reaching distance and so he poked Molly, instead.

She stirred but didn't open her eyes.

"Come on, 'Sleeping Beauty', get up already…" Jim groaned, "What, do you want me to kiss you or something?"

Molly didn't respond but Jim could have sworn he saw her thin lips pucker just a little bit.

He admitted (to himself, of course, not to her) that this was maybe, sort-of, _partially_ his fault.

Looking at the digital clock on the nightstand, Jim realized that he had fallen asleep for about an hour and had only woken up himself when Molly had asked what smelled _different._

Because of this _small _share in the blame, Jim decided to be charitable.

"Alright, then, I'll go make you some more coffee." He allowed, "You can sleep for now but when I come back I want you awake, okay? _Okay." _

He answered for Molly because she was too busy sleeping to talk for herself.

Then he got up, pulled on his underwear (or maybe it was hers, he did like to do that, anyway it was too dark to tell (no it wasn't)) and tucked her in, giving her the kiss he'd offered, but on the side of her forehead instead.

He then left the bedroom for the kitchen.

When Jim returned he was holding a cup of coffee.

The cup remained in his hand, but the liquid 'accidentally' spilled onto Molly.

She jumped up, instantly covered not only with coffee but with goosebumps.

"Wha—" she exclaimed, now alert, "Why did you do that?!"

Seeing Jim holding the now empty mug, she was able to 'deduce' what had happened despite having been asleep.

"Be thankful I let it cool off first." Jim replied, casually.

"I would've drank it…" Molly grumbled, wanting to pull the sheets up to cover herself but not wanting to get the ones still dry wet and stained, she was immobile in indecision, "And now the bed is all wet."

"Good, you needed to change those sheets anyway." Jim commented.

"You can do that." Molly decided, "I need to take a shower."

It was as close to giving Jim an 'order' as she had ever come, she _was_ tired and now grumpy, too, after all.

Jim snorted.

"You can do it later." He dismissed, "Once you're all cleaned up."

Dripping wet with coffee, Molly couldn't put on any of her clothing to go to the bathroom and so walked awkwardly past Jim and down the hall naked, giving herself a hug in attempted to be more decent (and warm).

"The carpets going to stain…" she mumbled as she saw the brown drops trail from her bedroom to the bathroom.

"So clean it—or better yet, get a maid." Jim shrugged, following the trail.

He sat down on the toilet seat after she'd stepped into the shower and pulled closed the curtain.

Once he heard the water running for a while he flushed the toilet, just for fun.

Molly said nothing.

"Sing a song or something." Jim requested, when it had been quiet for too long and the water had become a white noise, "I know you must sing in the shower. Everybody does."

Molly still said nothing.

The bathroom was full of steam now, the mirror was fogged everything was obscured—especially Molly who was behind the shower-curtain.

_Nothing to see here…_

Jim was bored.

_Molly_ was silent.

"You're not asleep in there, are you?" he checked, "You need me to come in there?"

"No thanks, Jim!" Molly called back to him from behind the curtain, loudly, as if she'd had trouble hearing him, "I'm fine!

Oh, _now,_ she said something.

"Well, if you say so…" Jim accepted, rolling his eyes, "Just be careful not to drop the soap, cause then I'd_ have_ to come in there."

Molly didn't respond to that, too tired to argue or get offended at another one of Jim's rude jokes, and so Jim had to start a conversation about something she'd actually_ want_ to talk about.

Usually, that was something _boring._

"So, Matthew…" Jim began, "He's named for your father, isn't he?"

"Uh-huh." Molly's voice affirmed.

"But you and Beth have different mothers."

"…yes, we do…"

Her voice was careful, _like following a stranger…_

"So even if your sister has a little she-demon, your poor mother doesn't get a namesake."

…_The stranger turns into a dark alley... _

"No, I guess she doesn't."

…_Her voice follows. .._

"…_unless,_ of course, _you_ had a daughter…"

…_The stranger offers something he will not deliver... _

"Or my brother, Paul."

…_Her voice refuses..._

"Or your brother, Paul."

…_He smiles but he retreats…_

…_Her voice has avoided his trap tonight, but what of the future? _

"But he's not really the type to settle down," Molly added, "…so I don't think that'll happen."

"Your brother sounds like a smart man." Jim smirked, "When do I get to meet him?"

"…um…I don't think the two of you would get along very well…"

"All the more reason to find out, then."

"He's very busy…?"

And hopefully _Jim_ would be too so he'd never have the time to make Molly's brother's acquaintance.

Jim laughed, standing up amongst the steam in the translucent bathroom. He drew a smiley-face in the foggy mirror with one finger as he continued to talk.

"So your dad married your stepmother because she was already pregnant, right?"

"…Why do you think that?"

Not a 'no'—then it was a yes.

"Well, because he was a dying man and he knew it. You told me that yourself. It makes sense…unless he _wanted_ to make the woman suffer being a widow and single mother."

"She knew what she was getting into. She knew he was sick…Virginia worked at the doctor's office my dad went to. She was there for him when my mum died. She was just friend to him, at first, but she didn't want him to be alone and_ he_ didn't want _her_ to be alone, either. "

"Everybody dies alone, Molly."

"That doesn't mean they have to _live_ alone."

"Your father left her alone, though just like your mother left him…_and you."_

The water stopped.

"Why are you saying things to me like this?" Molly's voice asked in a whisper.

She guessed that maybe Jim wanted her to cry or to shout at him, but she'd already cried for her parents—_years ago_. She'd long gotten over their deaths and she'd long gotten over falling for Jim's provocations.

"Because I'm bored." Jim answered, flatly.

He dropped his finger from the mirror, slowly. It sobbed as it slid down, drawing a stream of tears down one of the face's eyes.

"My dad and my stepmum enjoyed the time they had together and loved eachother—same with my dad and my mum." Molly said, "And that's all anyone can ever do. Everybody dies, Jim, and _most people_ don't _choose_ to."

It was as close to insulting him as she had ever come, and she immediately felt bad.

She'd attributed Jim's attempted suicide to his obvious insanity but she'd never dared to pity him because she knew he didn't want her (her of all people) pity and she didn't think he deserved it.

Still, anybody who would be desperate enough to take (or try to take) their own life must have been in terrible—or under extreme circumstances (or both).

Did that include Jim?

Did that include _Sherlock?_

…or were they just _different?_

"I'm not 'most people'." Jim responded, with a smile (although Molly wouldn't get the inside-joke between him and Sherlock), "…But you're right."

"I am?" Molly replied, surprised.

"All people can do is live and then die. Some people just like a little more control over how long they live and when they die, is all. Like me."

"So you'll do it again, someday?"

Now 'it' meant suicide.

Molly never afraid of death as subject, talking about it openly in frank terms…

...But_ Jim's_ death was something that she feared, perhaps more so than her own.

(And _that _was _another _thing to fear in of itself.)

Jim smirked a little at her choice of words, sitting back down on the toilet seat and facing the still closed shower-curtain.

"No, I don't think so…I don't think I'll _want_ to. I don't like to do the same thing twice. I get bored, you see…"

Except he'd come back to Sherlock, and he'd come back to Molly.

"Oh. Okay. Good."

"_Besides,_ death isn't the _worst _thingthat can happen to a person."

"Torture?"

"Yes—although, I'm sure we don't share the same definition for that word."

"Mine is pain. It can by physical pain, so bad that you want to die…but it can also be emotional pain, too. If you're depressed, hopeless, lonely. If life doesn't feel worth living."

Jim chuckled.

"_How cute_…Mine is immobility. Being stuck in the same place, doing the same thing—_doing nothing._ Being bored. And it's not only_ metaphorical_ immobility I'm talking about. No, I'm talking about _physical_ immobility, too. It's even worse. It's having a mind that's active—about to_ burst_ with pent up energy—but unable to move. No transport. You're just a prisoner inside your own body. So many idea and you can't _do anything._ That _frustration, _that _boredom,_ that _endless nothingness_…now_ that's_ torture. _That's _worse than death."

Molly gulped as she remembered the days she'd kept Jim paralyzed down on a table in the morgue.

Jim closed his eyes and sighed happily, revisiting the fond memory.

He'd escaped death and then he'd (eventually) escaped torture, he was a _survivor._

And it was all thanks to Molly Hooper, who incidentally felt tortured with guilt about it.

"That's what I—…_I'm sorry." _She apologized, from behind the curtain.

She was glad she didn't have to look at him and was glad he couldn't see her.

The room was still for an uncomfortable moment until Jim laughed.

"Don't be." He snorted, "I deserved it."

He dished it out but he could also take it.

(After all, even master chefs had to eat, too…and he was just waiting for one as good at cooking up trouble as he was to serve it back to him.)

"Nobody deserves to be tortured…and nobody deserves to die, either." Molly stated.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't happen." Jim countered.

"Doesn't mean that makes it right." Molly returned.

Jim just laughed at that, too.

And Molly realized that it was kind of silly, standing in the shower without the water running (and cold).

She'd finished washing up, but the warm water always felt nice (as long as Jim didn't flush the toilet).

Then again, so did a warm bed (and a warm man beside her).

But the sheets were now stained with coffee and in need of a change, and the carpet needed to be scrubbed. If she got out of the shower now, she'd have to do _chores._

Suddenly, Jim wrenched back the curtain and handed her a towel.

"You're clean." He decided for her, "Any longer and you'd get _wrinkles._ We can't have that, now can we?"

Molly took the towel, dried her hair and body, and then wrapped it around herself.

The bathroom was still warm, due to the lingering steam, but both were fading and all Molly really wanted to do was put on her pajamas and go to sleep.

Jim wasn't going to let that happen, though, of course.

"Time to change the sheets." He declared, "And since I'm such a gentleman, I'll help."

Jim gave Molly instructions on how to remove the clean bedclothes from the closet and dress the bed as if she was a small child doing it for the first time.

_Very helpful. _

But to his gentlemanly-credit, he _did_ dump the dirty sheets in the hamper—_and all by himself, too._

He also put all the other dirty clothes from the floor (carpet stains going uncleaned) in as well.

Molly put on her pajamas and got into bed, knowing her damp hair would be messy and tangled in the morning—no, the _evening_—when she woke up.

Jim, who was tired himself, gave up his job of keeping her awake and crawled in beside her, making it _very clear_ that he preferred she used him as a pillow rather than the Sherlock_-(and mostly Irene)-_smelling one.

He was a 'cuddler' because he was good (no, all-but _perfect)_ at being exactly what whoever he was with wanted him to be (when he wanted to) and he knew that people who wanted a 'cuddler' not only wanted the physical affection but the assurance that they wouldn't be abandoned in the middle of the night (or the early hours of the morning, as was the current case).

They wanted _trust._

And Jim was good (no, all-but _perfect)_ at faking that.

"You know _I'll_ never leave you, Molly." He mumbled into her wet hair.

He'd wanted her to think that he'd thought that she was sleeping, but she knew that he'd known she was awake.

He could feel her breathing, her heart beating.

"You're lying." She mumbled back.

"Only sometimes." Jim admitted, "Well, most of the time…"

"It's okay." Molly forgave, "I knew what I was getting into."

He wanted her confliction, guilt and uncertainty.

She gave him a kiss on his bare chest, instead.

_She_ wanted_ him_ to feel conflicted, guilty and uncertain about the things _he'd _done, too.

They didn't always get what they wanted (Sherlock), but at least they had eachother.

Still, as they lay there drifting slowly into sleep Jim was watching the clock.

"What was your mother's name, anyway?" he asked, after a while.

"Mary." Molly answered, in a yawn.

And Jim had to chuckle at that.

Molly felt the chuckle as well as heard it and took that opportunity to reposition herself turned away from him.

"_You'd_ be her namesake…if you were Irish." Jim told her.

"I know." Molly acknowledged, sleepily as she nestled into him and the blankets.

"_I'm_ Irish." Jim informed, conversationally, as if she didn't know and he was just casually mentioning it.

Another offer he'd never deliver…and that _she_ didn't _want. _

Her voice didn't answer.

* * *

**(7/12/12, 4:30PM)**

**COUNTDOWN: 3 hours remaining.**

Obviously, Greg Lestrade just wasn't _pretty _enough (no! never!). Why else would the people with cameras (photography and video) loitering on the steps of the courthouse not be taking his picture?

_Oh right…_

Because he was an ex-Detective Inspector turned security guard—_not_ a criminal.

_Raul DeSantos,_ however, _was _a criminal.

He'd poisoned his employer the famous Connie Prince so that her brother, Kenny, and he could have her money.

Sherlock Holmes had solved that murder case and Raul had been convicted, but Sherlock Holmes was a 'fraud' and so Raul was going free.

_In five…four…_

Lestrade watched the media personnel ready their equipment.

…_three…two…_

He glanced behind him quickly to see Raul and his lawyer approach the exit to the courthouse.

…_one. _

The doors opened and the chaos began. Flashing lights, shouting voices, footsteps almost dancing to get pictures of Raul from different angles and to get away from having his picture taken.

The roars of the reporters all blended and the response (from Raul or his lawyer?—Lestrade couldn't tell) was 'no comment'.

"Back up!" Lestrade warned the crowd when they got to close to the newly acquitted criminal, "Stay five feet away!"

It felt wrong to be protecting Raul (who was further trashing Sherlock's reputation just by winning his freedom) but it was his job.

(Hopefully the cameramen would get bad footage because of it and the story (because that's what it was, a story—a lie) would get less attention.)

Lestrade thought he had managed to fend off the media for a moment as they turned away from Raul but then he saw who they were turning towards.

"Murderer!" Kenny Prince shouted as he jumped out of a nondescript taxi that had been waiting outside the courthouse all morning, "You killed my beloved sister!"

He pointed at Raul with one hand, while with the other wiping (fake) tears from his eyes (which were looking at the cameras, rather than at his former boytoy).

Quickly, the photographers started snapping photos of him.

"Get that man away from my client." Raul's lawyer ordered Lestrade.

"It's a public street." Lestrade shrugged.

If Kenny was maintaining that Raul was Connie's killer, then he was maintaining that Sherlock wasn't a fraud.

Grumbling, the lawyer steered his client quickly down the stairs while the media personnel were distracted by Kenny (who was now being interviewed by various reporters, including one Kitty Riley).

Unnoticed, a towncar had slid past the members of the media up to the curb. It allowed Raul and his lawyer to slip inside, _also_ unnoticed.

It idled by the side of the road, waiting for almost thirty minutes until Kenny was finally finished telling his sob story to the eager interviewers (and the eager public that would eat it up like baby birds eating their mother's vomit).

Lestrade and other security guards eventually forced the crowd outside the courthouse the disperse and once they were gone, Kenny remained.

He found that the taxi he'd taken to his _definitely _unscheduled and unplanned public statement had '_mysteriously disappeared'_ (driven away).

Looking back and forth, up and down the street, Kenny attempted to locate another cab.

Instead the waiting towncar pulled up beside him to offer a convenient and complementary ride.

Kenny accepted.

Inside, he was shocked and offended to see Raul (and his lawyer).

Raul would've been equally angered if the situation hadn't already been explained to him in the time after he'd gotten inside.

…_by Irene Adler._

She smiled, re-adjusting her seat across from the now three men (two of them gay and so not appreciating her legs) with her in the car (which sped away before Kenny had the chance to jump out).

"Now that we're all here we can get started." Irene started, "Boys, I've got an offer to make to you."

Raul and Kenny didn't refuse.

* * *

**(7/12/12, 7:00PM) **

**COUNTDOWN: 30 minutes remaining. **

Molly had woken up at roughly five-thirty that afternoon to the sound of vacuuming.

She was alone in bed but _not _alone in her bedroom.

There was a woman dressed in the most classically stereotypical maid's outfit vacuuming her carpet.

She shut off the machine when Molly sat up, standing upright herself.

"I cleaned floor." She informed in a Russian(?) accented (broken) English that dropped the definite-articles before the nouns, "Your husband hired me. He told me not to wake you up. I am sorry."

"It's alright…" Molly allowed, still slightly confused and surprised (and sleepy), "…where is he now? Did he leave?"

She imagined Jim attempting to sneak out of her apartment building in the middle of the night—no, day!—and promptly getting arrested or shot by Mycroft's employees.

Panicking, Molly jumped out of bed and rushed out of the room.

She glanced up and down the hallway, then checking the living room, kitchen and bathroom but finding no sign of Jim.

Then she heard the front door open.

Expecting Mycroft's employees to burst in and arrest her too for associating with Jim, she was pleasantly surprised (relieved) to see Jim enter the hall.

"Good afternoon." He greeted, "I was just down in the laundry room."

Molly gawked at him.

There was no way.

"…You didn't—"She began.

"No, _I _didn't." Jim finished, "But _Anya_ did. _Is._ She's doing it now. Didn't I tell you I had people for that sort of thing?...Well, anyway, did you like the maid I got you? Only _temporary_, of course, on a trial basis—unless you want to hire her full time, that is…"

"Uh, no thank you." Molly refused, "…but thank you for the help, though."

"Thank Douglas Gordon." Jim redirected, snickering, "He's the one paying for the Bolshevik beauties."

"…Okay, then…" Molly accepted (because what else could she do, now that they were here?).

She continued to stare awkwardly at Jim, as if waiting for him to do or say something.

Eventually, he rolled his eyes.

"Don't you have like…_work _or something to get ready for?" he reminded, eyebrow raised, sounding mildly annoyed and mildly amused.

"Oh, right!" Moly exclaimed, laughing embarrassedly, "…I'll go, um, do that."

And she did.

When she was done and dressed, she found Jim and breakfast waiting for at the kitchen table.

He said he'd had it delivered, just like the maids (who'd since served their purposes and exited off-stage) and that it was amazing what you can find on the internet.

They'd eaten and now it was seven o' clock in the evening.

Molly'd eaten breakfast at dinner time and she supposed that she would have to just get used to this strange, backwards schedule.

Jim waited until after Molly had brushed her teeth to kiss her goodbye as she was off to the nightshift.

"Take a cab." He warned, "Train's not safe at time."

She laughed at his over-protective over-reaction and kissed him again, this time on the cheek.

"I'll be fine." She assured.

"Yes, you will." He agreed, "I already called one for you. It's waiting outside right now.

Molly sighed but then smiled a sad but true smile.

These rare times when Jim was nice and caring towards her were wonderful, but painful at the same time because she knew that they never lasted and that they were never real.

Still, she enjoyed them while they did last and leaned up to kiss Jim the way she always did whenever one of them or both of them was leaving.

As if she'd never see him again.

(Because, after all, it never _was_ a guarantee.)

"Be here when I get back." Molly said when her lips broke away from his.

And it was as close to asking Jim to prove what (if anything) he felt for her to her as she had ever come, and_ would_ ever come.

"Sure, why not?" Jim shrugged.

Still, Molly said "Goodbye, Jim." just in case.

"See you later, Molly." Jim returned.

He waved, she nodded and then she was gone.

He closed the door behind her, already starting to countdown the thirty minutes remaining before he could leave the flat.

* * *

**Now I have to get a little bit ANGRY.**

**Not at you guys, of course...but at some 'Sherlock' fans.**

**I like to point out hypocrisy because I'm just that bitchy kind of person lol. **

**Why is it that:**

**When Sally Donovan calls Sherlock a 'freak', then she's a bitch...but when Sherlock calls people 'stupid' (and other ruder ways of saying it), he's sexy and cool? **

**Is it just because he's an anti-social genius...or is it because he has a penis?**

**And why is it that:**

**When Kitty Riley lies to the public, she's a bitch...but when Jim lies to everyone on a daily basis (gets people killed, commits other crimes), he's sexy and cool? **

**Is it just because he's an overly-social genius...or is it because he has a penis?**

**And why is it that:**

**When Irene flirts with Sherlock, she's a bitch that's trying to steal Sherlock from John (in some people's opinion, anyway)...but when Jim flirts with Sherlock, he's _still_ sexy and cool?**

**Is it because he's _still_ sexy and cool...or is it BECAUSE HE HAS A PENIS?!**

**Or maybe it has nothing to do with how sexy and cool Sherlock and Jim (and their respective penises) are and it's just cause Sally, Kitty and Irene all have vaginas or something...**

**Do ya'll get what I'm trying to say here?**

**lol**

**Just some food for thought. **

**What do you think?**

**And btw, what do you think about the chapter? **


	20. Business Tripping

**Hi everybody...**

**It's been wayyyyyyy too long.**

**It's not the homework that's the problem for me, it's the social interaction. ****I don't seem to have enough emotion to share between real people and creativity. **

**I just feel so tired. ****Probably because I'm sick. ****Half the people I know are sick there's something going around. **

**Otherwise, it's great here at college, though :)**

**To the anonymous reviewer who 'deduce****d' I'm taking Gender Studies...sorry, but I'm not. 14,000 some words of chapter and that's all you picked up? **

**If you read my whole story and the one that comes before it, you can see that I've always been a bit of a 'feminist'.**

**But if you're guessing classes, the blatant liberalism I'm unable that integrates into everything I do (which is this story, mostly) you should've been able to guess Sociology.**

**I was liberal way before I took that class, of course, but it would be the most obvious guess.**

**Still thank you for reviewing, anything to get the number's up I always say. **

**And (as always) THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who reviewed last chapter!**

**Your opinions, interpretations and support are beyond appreciated (they're loved), unbelievably nice and brilliant (as British people stereo typically love to say).**

**Thank you again (and again (and again)). **

**This chapter was never meant to be like this. **

**It's only half of what I planned for but it got too long and I felt as if I was never going to finish it and it's been over two weeks so yeah I'm going to post what I have now.**

**I hope it's okay. ****It's definitely weird at first. ****And purposefully pretentious.**

**You'll see what I mean when you read it.**

**If anything is confusing ask me and I will explain.**

* * *

There is nothing to do.

When there is nothing to do _you get bored._

When you get bored, you have to do _something._

What do you do?

_Drugs._

Which ones?

Well, that depends on what you_ want_ to do.

So…what do you want to do?

Something.

_Forget?_

_Escape?_

Nothing.

_No._

Need _something._

_Feel?_

Live, _really live?_

_Yes. _

Something.

We had to break the rules and so we stole our parents' money and ran away, out of the 'nice' neighborhood into a 'bad' one.

(But 'bad' (just like 'good') isn't_ real_ and money is just paper, worthless and it belongs equally to everyone just like everything else and so we had _the right_ to take it.)

We like to think.

We know everything.

All the problems of this earth could be solved if they just listened to us.

(But 'they'_ don't_ listen to us because we're _just kids_ (teenagers) and they think they know everything (they think they're always right but they're wrong.))

So where was I again?

_Oh yeah. _

So my girlfriend Amy and I had decided to get married (except we didn't _need_ a wedding, a church, documents, labels…those were all just confines meant to control us and make us conform to _The Man)_ and live together in small apartment we could afford with the money we earned from our parents after seventeen years of suffering under their suffocating rule.

We were partying.

Most people party to celebrate, because they are happy…

…but _we, _we aren't like _them._

We are _different._

We party because we are sad.

We _were_ sad.

Why were we sad?

Because Freddie Mercury was dead.

November 24, 1992.

That man was like our idol or something.

(I say 'idol or something' because he wasn't exactly _our _idol, he was Vic's idol and _Vic _was our idol.)

Vic was there too.

He was being a bit stoic, not really crying just watching the fuzzy-screened telly that was a 'wedding present' from Mike and it didn't (couldn't) get cable no matter how much we messed with the antenna (because we couldn't afford cable—_it should be free!_ Entertainment is art and all art should be free! _Information for all!)_

It sat on the floor, just like all of us.

At least we were on a (dirty) rug.

There was only like three rooms in the apartment anyway, and one of them was a bathroom. Then there was the bedroom and the room that was everything else (living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway)

Mike was also there and he'd brought his girlfriend Jan.

She was crying because she really loved Freddie Mercury and all gay musicians and all gay people.

She was how we all met Vic, they were best friends and had even dated for a while until Vic decided to be gay.

I don't have a problem with gay people, it's their choice and people should be free to choose what they want to do (as long as no one gets hurt).

I just said 'more girls for me' but then Vic told me about the existence lesbians.

(And then Mike told (showed) me _more_ about lesbians and I decided that I really didn't mind their existence at all.)

My parents don't like gay people.

I think they just mean gay men because I don't think they know about lesbians.

They say all gay men have gay cancer.

(They also say that about black people, too, even the straight ones and especially the ones in Africa so I don't know why they call it 'gay' cancer.)

I think that actually might've been what Freddie Mercury died of but that's just a coincidence because not all gay people have aides just like how Vic is sort of a drug dealer but not all gay people are drug dealers—at least I don't think so.

I don't know any other gay people.

But I was going to meet another one tonight.

Later.

Right now we were just hanging out, talking, crying (well only Jan), dancing around and listening to old Queen tapes on Mike's boombox (I don't know where he's getting all these expensive electronics because he quit school and doesn't have a job or rich parents).

We had been high earlier (and do you know why they call it 'high' it's because you're taken to a higher state of consciousness, you reach enlightenment when you're high, the brain is basically dead and then the drugs bring it to life and you can finally think).

It was cocaine.

It was always coke because Vic was pretty rich, actually, and he said it was what successful _adults _do (even his dad did until Vic was born and he's a judge so that practically makes it legal).

All the other kids just drank (which is legal anyway once you're eighteen so what's the point then after that?) or smoked pot.

They were just_ pretending_ to be grown-up.

We actually _were._

—Except not_ old_ like adults.

We were still young and so life was still worth living (sort of).

This was our only time in life to be _free._

Once we turned like thirty-life would be over anyway.

The only thing worse than dying was getting old, that's what Amy and I decided one night while we were lying awake and just talking.

(We were so brilliant, she and I, we wonder how everyone else is so stupid.)

We built a life for ourselves here, breaking all the rules and doing whatever we wanted to.

(The money Amy gets from her mum and dad every month doesn't count because they owe it to her anyway. She didn't _choose_ to be born into this painful existence on this painful world. Nobody does. Parents are evil. That's why me and Amy will never have kids. Also because pulling out always )

Vic and Jan were still stuck in school, though, so they still had their leashes on.

Not_ actual_ leashes that you put onto dogs (and sometimes on to your children because children are just pets to control to their parents) but the metaphorical kind like school and work and chores and parents and stuff that keep you tied down by The Establishment.

I knew Vic only went to school to deal drugs so at least he was fighting The Power by using The System against itself.

He got his 'product' (the codename for it, nobody could ever figure out what he was talking about if they didn't already know) from his ex-boyfriend who went to some university in the city and got it from a different dealer there.

Vic was a smart guy, even if he was gay.

Jan said gay men are actually smarter than straight men, she said that's why so many of them are famous politicians, actors and writers because they had the brains of women and women are all naturally smarter than men.

(I don't know if I agree with that but that may just be because I'm stupider because I'm male and so don't understand.)

So yeah, anyway, it was kind of awkward with me and Amy then Mike and Jan, both of us couples and then just Vic alone.

He said his _'friend' _('almost boyfriend in a way but don't say that in front of him because he doesn't even do that sort of thing' kind of friend) would be coming soon.

His name was Sherlock…something. ( I don't remember his last name. The first name was just so strange that it was easy to remember.)

Now Vic is pretty smart like I already said, but this Sherlock kid was supposed to be _even smarter. _

He had been failing school for an entire semester and then made up all his missing credits during one week of summer school exams.

He didn't hate school because he was stupid and it was too hard, he hated school because it confined him and he was too smart.

_It was holding him down and holding him back. _

I think I'm probably the same way but even more so because I don't even bother with those stupid exams anyway.

Vic told us that Sherlock was like a scientist or something and that he invented this new way to get high.

You take a syringe like you'd use for heroin and then you mix up some amount of cocaine and water and inject it.

It's better this way because you don't have to snort it and mess up your lungs and nose, and the water it's mixed up with makes it healthy because the human body is like 70% percent water anyway.

_See,_ Sherlock_ was _a genius.

And we were gonna try his new method tonight.

(Like labrats in an experiment. How exciting!)

Sherlock was late because he was getting the equipment from one of the hospitals in the city, so he knows it's clean, and gets it for free.

That's what Vic explained to us, while we were waiting.

It was about nine or ten at night maybe, I think…

We didn't hear the knock on the door or the door creak open because the music and the static from the telly was too loud.

But maybe nobody had knocked and nobody had opened the door because nobody was there.

Mike noticed first.

He had really good hearing and always heard tiny noises like somebody was sneaking up on him. He'd been jumped a couple of times by some thugs in the next neighborhood so I think that's why.

He said he likes being hyper-aware and hates it when the world gets dull and quiet, which it is when he's low.

High should be the natural state, by the way, low should be the abnormal.

That's why we call it 'low'.

High is just living.

We are gods.

"That him?" Mike asked.

He looked up from the fascinating static of the telly and over at the front door where nobody stood.

Then he looked at Vic.

"No…it's not..." Vic answered, confusedly, looking at Mike and then at the opened door.

Nobody was there.

Nobody was like a ghost.

I couldn't see him there but I could _feel_ him.

He was blurry and faceless, like a person your mind conjures up in a dream.

I know he wasn't real and yet he was there (and yet not _really_ there).

He never existed.

I made him up.

Or maybe, _he_ made_ me_ up.

Maybe _I_ never existed.

"Oh, I know him!" Jan exclaimed, jumping up and running over to the empty doorway.

"You do?!" Mike exclaimed, taken aback and raising an eyebrow.

He stood up and hurried after to put a possessive arm around her.

"Don't worry, he's gay." Jan consoled Mike, who sighed in relief and then turned to greet nobody, "His name is Jim. He used to go to school with me. He was in the school play once, he was really good."

"Oh, okay." Mike accepted, "Hi, Jim. I'm Mike."

Amy and I looked at each other.

Did_ I_ see what _she _saw?

Did _she_ see what _I _saw?

_No._

_Nobody _saw what _I _saw.

Nobody.

"Maybe we should go over and say hello?" Amy suggested to me.

"Maybe." I returned.

I didn't want to move.

I always want to move but I didn't want to move.

Amy always told me what we should do, but never did anything unless I did it first.

But then she did stand up before I even moved and went over to the doorway where Mike, Jan and nobody stood.

She went without me.

I just kept sitting down on the rug, staring into the static on the screen and listening to the music in the background that had become white noise.

I don't know what I was really paying attention to, but I knew that I was _not_ paying attention to _nobody._

Deliberately not paying attention.

And when you deliberately try not to think about something, it's all you think about.

And when you deliberately try to think about _nothing…_

Can you even think about nothing?

Does 'nothing' even_ exist_ (or rather,_ not_ exist because if it actually exists then it's something)?

I glanced towards Vic but he was gone.

No, he was just at the door now, with nobody and the three somebodies.

"Jan, did you invite him?" He asked, gesturing at the empty doorway.

"No." Jan shrugged.

Vic turned and stared into space at nobody.

"How did you know we were all meeting up here then?" he questioned, suspiciously.

"Sherlock told me." Nobody said.

His voice…

It wasn't in the room, it was in my head.

Like when those crazy people talk about hearing voices in their heads, it was like that.

I guess that makes me crazy.

Yes it does, Fred, it does.

That was him.

And my name isn't even 'Fred'.

Yes it is.

That was him again.

No it wasn't.

No it wasn't.

So it was me?

Yes, it was me.

"How do you know Sherlock?" Vic asked, "He's never mentioned a 'Jim' and he doesn't know many people. Just me and his brother. He doesn't bother to know anybody else's names."

"I'm Sherlock." Nobody said.

"No, you're obviously not." Vic laughed, "And don't go telling me that's_ your_ name, too, because 'Sherlock' isn't a very common name and Jan just told us yours was Jim."

Vic, Jan, Mike and Amy stood around nobody like an asteroid belt around a planet.

And when nobody stepped into the room the sea of rocks in space parted to let him through.

Then they followed him into the center of the room, like he had some kind of gravity.

But everything has gravity, doesn't it?

Isn't that like one of the laws of physics or something?

And the things with the most gravity are the biggest…and the smallest.

Like a black hole that sucks everything up.

I could tell nobody was hungry.

I didn't want to be pulled into the darkness.

It was already too late for Jan, for Mike, for Amy (oh, poor Amy, I'm sorry, I'll miss you but you left me. you left me for him. you left me for me_. did_ you leave me?) and maybe even for Vic, too, _but not for me._

I was going to _live._

But how did I know they were going to _die?_

Because we were_ all_ going to die.

_I_ was going to die.

"Okay, okay, you got me." Nobody laughed, raising his hands in surrender and self-defense, "I'm Sherlock's boyfriend. He sent me to tell you all that he can't make it tonight."

"Couldn't he have just called?" Mike wondered.

"You don't have a phone here." Nobody explained, glancing around the room in demonstration.

Yes, Amy and I didn't have a landline.

Anybody who wanted to talk to us could contact us in person and in anybody who we wanted to contact us in person knew where we lived.

(Except my parents.)

_Except nobody._

He knew where we lived.

How did he know?

Because _I_ know.

I told him.

I told _myself._

He is me.

I am nobody.

"Sherlock doesn't have a boyfriend." Vic countered, folding his arms, "He's not even gay."

"…I know…" Nobody sighed, sympathetically, "But a boy can dream, can't he?"

Vic couldn't help but laugh at that, finally smiling.

"I suppose he can." Vic admitted, "I'm a dreamer."

"But you're not the only one." Nobody added, matching the smile.

The tension was gone and calm resumed with laughter and smiles as the teenagers sang 'old' music because our generation's music sucks and only 'old' music is good and _real._

Today's pop music was only made to control the masses and keep the young from rebelling against our overlords.

The generation before us's music was always better and so we were always ashamed about what our peers produced. (Those stupid fat Americans, mostly.)

Everyone else was talking and standing, but I kept sitting, just sitting and watching (because I'm a nonconformist (and because I was scared)).

No one even noticed me there.

But _nobody_ noticed me.

"I brought a present for everyone." Nobody announced, "Sherlock Holmes sends his love."

He opened a plastic shopping-bag and pulled something out.

It was dark in the room (because Amy had covered the two windows with newspaper she'd found down the hall because she didn't want people on the street staring in and we couldn't afford blinds or curtain) but I could tell _exactly_ what nobody was holding up.

Floating in midair, in the hands of nobody, were the syringes Vic had described filled with some kind of substance that glinted in dim lamplight like a star.

Glint and then gone.

A _dying_ star.

"Oooh, shiny…" Jan cried, already reaching towards the stolen light.

"That's his stuff, isn't it?" Mike guessed, putting a hand on her shoulder to hold her back, "The stuff he gets from the hospital? He's got to show me how he gets past security. There're these people down the street that are always looking to buy medical supplies and medicine."

Nobody chuckled.

"He's a rich Anglo with a posh accent." He explained, "People trust him. That's why he gets past security. They'd never trust a black street kid like you in a hospital. They'd blame you for a crime even if you didn't do."

"Afro-Caribbean!" Jan corrected, gasping in offense and defense of her boyfriend (who's grandparents were actually Ghanaian immigrants).

"…hate to say it but he's right." Mike shrugged, "Not that I'm doing much to change the stereotype myself."

"It's not your fault." Jan consoled, eyes already teary due to the death of one of her gay idols and now watering again because of the many troubles other kinds of minorities faced that her ancestors had caused.

"But they wouldn't trust _you,_ either, Fred, would they?" Nobody added.

Suddenly, Nobody had turned and looked right at me.

He saw me.

I saw him.

How had he known my name?

But that wasn't my name.

Yes it was.

Yes it _is._

"But his name's not 'Fred'." Amy spoke up.

"Sorry." Nobody laughed, "He just looks so much like him, Freddie Mercury, and you've got that song playing so loud, I just thought, well, the both of them might like to be reborn…"

And so I was rechristened 'Fred'.

And so I was reborn.

And so I died.

"It's okay." I said (but it wasn't!), "I like the name Fred. You can call me 'Fred', if you want to."

"I _do _want to call you 'Fred', Fred." Nobody stated, "Now come over here, Fred, and join the party."

I nodded and I stood.

I followed his eyes over to the group, the circle expanded to include me.

It felt good to be part of the group.

I had been absorbed into the collective.

I had been eaten.

There was no negative emotion when you're part of a group and when that group has a leader and when you have someone else to _blame._

But I have _nobody_ to blame.

I looked at Amy, then at Vic, then at Mike, then at Jan and then at nobody.

"So who wants to try it first?" Nobody asked.

He held up one full syringe out to the group gazing wide-eyed.

"Where did Sherlock get the 'product' to put in there?" Vic questioned, his natural state of suspicion peeking through again.

"Oh, Sherly's a real pretty boy, he can get it anywhere he wants to." Nobody told him, laughing, "So maybe he just_ wants _to get it from you because he _likes_ you."

"A boy can dream." Vic accepted, with a shrug, suspicion faded.

He'd been told what he'd wanted to hear.

Empty promises like the ones from corrupt politicians.

(That's why voting wasn't important anyway. It was all a scam and a conspiracy. There was probably one big secret government that ruled the whole world.)

"I'll try first." I volunteered, even raising a hand like I was in class at school.

Nobody grinned and handed me the syringe.

When I injected the serum I realized instantly that this was _not _cocaine.

But I couldn't tell them, I couldn't speak, I couldn't say _anything._

My voice was gone.

And nobody's voice was in my head.

I had injected him into my body! He was in my blood! In my mind!

He was me and I was him.

The others, Amy (oh god, oh Amy, I love you, Amy, I'm so sorry) and the rest, they all used different syringes because nobody had said it would be safer that way and they weren't stupid kids just experimenting.

There was something else inside there, I think it was actually coke but it wasn't what _I _took.

What took _me._

They were all laughing, dancing, singing, talking and _living._ They were all _happy._

And I was floating above them like a ghost watching them and my own body below.

I wasn't moving and nobody wasn't moving.

My body, however, _was_ moving.

And I heard nobody whisper.

The voice in my ear, the voice in my head.

My voice.

He told me what to do and I did it.

I did what I wanted to do.

I did it.

And nobody sat on the dirty rug on the floor, watching me and everyone through the reflection on the static in the telly.

My body followed orders because that was what its job was.

My body was empty.

Nobody was in my body.

His soul had taken it over and I was on the outside.

I wasn't myself anymore.

I was him and he was me.

Soon, _no one_ was laughing, dancing, singing, talking anymore. They were all still _living_—but _barely._

Everyone was running, screaming, falling, crying and _dying._

The music and the static masked all the noise.

When the tape ran out and nobody turned off the telly, then it was finally quiet.

I was back in my body but it wasn't mine.

I think I might have been dead.

I think I might still be dead.

I lay down on the empty rug.

It was clean.

The rest of the room, the floor and all the walls, were so dirty.

But there was no such thing as true silence, just as there is no such thing as true peace.

I could hear the sound of the city outside, people going on with their lives ignorant as always.

And in the next room, the bathroom, somebody was taking a shower.

If you've seen the pictures, then you know what happened.

It was horrible, so _ugly_…but so _beautiful,_ too, like artwork.

Art can be sad, _can't it?_

Art can be violent.

_Can't it?_

_Can't it? _

Well, if it _can,_ then I am an artist.

And if it _can't_ then…

Then I am _nothing._

I am nobody.

* * *

Hospitals were generally open at all hours because emergencies don't take the night off and chronic conditions needed constant management.

Still (away from the busyness, bright lights and people in the care section of the hospital) Molly was alone and in the dark during the nightshift in the back laboratory.

Turning on the light didn't make her feel any less alone in such a big room, mostly white and housing multiple tables full of different kinds of equipment. There was also a door to the smaller room where the samples were stored, some even refrigerated.

There was actually a large backlog of tests (mostly blood or urine) and so Molly had a lot to do that night (and the nights to come).

Working with her hands, Molly could allow her mind to _wander._

This was easy and repetitive, stuff she'd done while still in medical school (and for free while volunteering), and so she was content with this busywork and paycheck even if she had to be isolated and up all night.

Molly considered putting on some music, but there was no radio and she hadn't brought a portable music player, and so she just hummed to herself as she worked, allowing time to flow away unnoticed to the large whir of the spinning machinery and the small sound of her own voice.

She couldn't help think of Jim, and of Sherlock and Irene Adler, wondering what they were up to.

Jim had told her only the most minimal amount of information about their plans and as much as this bothered Molly, it bothered her even more that John knew nothing.

It was one thing when Sherlock was pretending to be dead so that Jim wouldn't find him, but now that Sherlock and Jim were apparently allies _(just_ allies because Molly doubted that they'd ever be friends) what was the point of hiding everything from John?

Sherlock being alive had nothing to do with Sebastian Moran and so Molly didn't see that as a valid reason not to tell John at least some of what was going on.

Still, Molly knew she couldn't tell John because that would only make him (and Lestrade) _more_ suspicious of her and he'd never trust her again (did he even trust her now?).

Also, it just wasn't _her place. _

Who was she, little Molly Hooper, to meddle in Sherlock Holmes's grand design that she didn't know nor could ever hope to comprehend?

She was no one.

—At least compared to Sherlock, Jim (and even John, too, who was both a doctor _and_ a soldier).

They were _so big _and she was _so small…_

What would she even be able to do with all the information they didn't tell her, if she had it?

Probably nothing.

So there was no need for her to know.

_(But what would she be able to do with their minds, their genius, their power…?)_

_(Maybe something?)_

Molly's shift ended at four in the morning, if she took a 'lunch' (midnight snack) break, and she knew she'd be followed home by Mycroft's employees.

Would Jim be there?

He'd _said_ he would, but Molly knew him better than that.

And she wouldn't blame him for playing it safe, and staying away from her to avoid detection.

She wouldn't _blame_ him…but she knew that if Jim stayed away from her, it wouldn't be because he was 'playing it safe'.

Now, the smart thing to do would be for Molly to go to Mycroft and request to be moved somewhere where Jim could never find her.

As long as he knew where she was, he'd always sporadically come back to her, but that meant he would also always leave.

This was there _way of life._

Molly and Jim chasing each other in circles—or, rather, Jim running circles around Molly, spinning her around to keep her dizzy and disoriented.

She was powerless.

And there was nothing she could do about it (because that's what 'powerless' means).

…_unless…_

Unless she got _Jim_ to do something about it for her.

When he was so busy manipulating her, he'd never notice that_ she_ was manipulating _him._

As long as he _thought_ he was in control, she could get what she wanted because he would either unknowingly let her take it or even just give it to her.

Sure, it would mean giving up a lot her job, family, the way she lived and maybe even her _life)_ but if it worked, it would be worth it.

Andwhat did Molly want?

Oh, _nothing much._

Just selfless things for selfish reasons.

She wanted Jim to stop killing, stop violent and destructive crime all together, and stop hurting people...

…so that she could be with him without feeling guilty about it.

And she wanted Jim.

Not just whenever _he_ wanted to be with her and then waiting for him when he _didn't,_ unable to move on because he wouldn't have left her alive if he wasn't coming back.

No.

She wanted him to be _hers _in the same way that she was his.

But that was never going to happen and Moly knew it because she knew _Jim._

_Still…_

Still, there could be symbiosis instead of dysfunction in their relationship (if Jim could work with Sherlock, then he could work with Molly) and there could be equality instead of hierarchy (if Sherlock could work with John, then Jim could work with Molly)—even if it _was_ going to be a constant power struggle.

Business and relationships (working, friendly, romantic, familial) were all just about giving people what they need or want in exchange for getting what one needed or wanted.

So what did Jim want?

Oh, _nothing much._

Just attention and emotion.

Molly knew Jim, she knew that he didn't do anything if it wouldn't make him happy and since he did what he did to get a reaction out of people (usually Sherlock, but often also her, his brother, Mycroft and/or just the general public), she knew that those people's reactions were what made him happy.

So Molly would give Jim all her attention and all her emotion and he would eagerly take it, he always did.

And without even realizing it, he would be giving Molly what she wanted.

She'd have to go with him everywhere he went. In doing that, she'd be able to know what he was doing—and stop him before he went too far.

_That _was her plan.

The only problem was Mycroft's employees going with _her_ where ever _she_ went.

But Molly guessed that she could probably make Jim do something about that, too _(nonlethally,_ of course).

As she was waiting for chemicals to process, trying to figure out just how she and Jim would go about escaping her shadows once the time came, Molly heard familiar footsteps approach above the buzzing machine beside her.

Highheels on tile.

Molly tensed but knew she had to remain calm.

_Hopefully _Anthea was here for a reason _other_ than confronting her about how Jim, Sherlock and Irene Alder were all just in her flat yesterday.

Turning to the doorway just in time to see the door open, Molly saw Anthea enter the long room cautiously, glancing around until her eyes fell on Molly who was already staring at her suspiciously.

"May I help you?" Molly asked, politely, starting towards her.

"Yes, actually." Anthea answered, with a laugh that was almost embarrassed.

She had a sealed plastic bag in her hands, inside it were six vials of what had to be blood.

Molly recognized it as crime scene evidence and _not_ because of Sherlock.

No, it was because once in university she'd had a professor who was a bit of a crime enthusiast and so had all of her students run samples from cold cases as a 'community service' to Scotland Yard.

This was _old_ evidence.

_Much older_ than the _month-old-at-most _backlog of samples in this hospital's storage.

"_How_ may I help you?" Molly added, raising an eyebrow at the bag of evidence.

"I need you to test these blood samples." Anthea stated, "Find out which drugs—if any—were in these subjects' systems."

"Are you going to tell me whose samples these are?" Molly inquired, doubtfully, "And what happened to them?"

"I'm sorry but that's classified." Anthea refused.

"If it's classified, then why did you come to me?" Molly tested, "Why not just go to a government lab?...You and your boss don't want the government to know about this, do you?"

"Maybe these are blood samples of my various lovers all over the world." Anthea shrugged, "Maybe I just don't want my employer to know about this."

"If you didn't want him to know, then you wouldn't come to me." Molly dismissed, "You know I'm being watched by his employees all the time. They know you're here and so does he. So why don't you want the rest of the government to know?"

"My employer _is_ 'the rest of the government'." Anthea laughed.

"Then why are you here?" Molly insisted, "I won't do run these samples for you unless you tell me what this is about."

"What about 'Queen and Country?" Anthea tried, "As an agent of the British government I am compelling you to run the tests."

"You can't do that!" Molly exclaimed, "Especially since this isn't even official business. So just tell me what is going on, you know I won't tell anyone."

"I _can't _tell you because_ I_ don't know." Anthea explained, more than just_ slightly_ annoyed, "The only one who knows who these samples belong to and why they are significant is Mycroft Holmes and the only thing he told me is to bring them to you to be tested for drugs. That's it. I'm sorry."

"I don't believe you." Molly disbelieved, evenly, folding her arms.

"Then don't believe me, Miss Hooper, but you _will _do these tests for me." Anthea replied, evenly, folding_ her_ arms.

They stared in a completely polite and _not _glaring _at all_ manner at each other for a moment, silently, as the equipment in the room loudly did its job.

There were four tables of machinery and all machines were on and working, they and Molly were being as productive as possible tonight (as there_ was_ a whole lot of backlog).

"As you can see," Molly demonstrated, gesturing to these machines, "I am very busy tonight. I don't have time to do six anonymous tests without even knowing what I am looking for."

Anthea sighed.

"I may not be able to tell you any specifics…" she began, "…but you know as well as I do, that if my employer doesn't trust _me_ with this there is only _one_ person that this could be about."

"…_Sherlock…"_ Molly realized, her eyes and her entire consciousness waking up.

(Despite multiple cups of coffee, she was still a little sleepy and the whir of the equipment had been like a white noise lullaby.)

Anthea nodded at the name.

"I'll do these tests…" Molly agreed_, "—if_ I get to analyze the results."

"Well, _I_ certainly don't know how to do that and neither does my boss, so _of course_ you get to analyze the results." Anthea allowed, "No one else even knows about this—and no one else ever can. Do you understand?"

"I told you, I won't tell anyone." Molly understood,_ "…Besides," _she laughed, light and sad, "Who do I have to tell?"

Two hours later, the tests were done.

Molly and Anthea stood by the only unmoving and quiet machine, in the corner of the laboratory.

"There were abnormally high levels of adrenaline in all the samples." Molly informed, "But natural, not injected. It was different in all of them, unique to their bodies…and all the samples had what would be near-lethal concentrations of cocaine, except that their bodies must have built up a tolerance to it because it didn't affect them very strongly—but five of the samples had more than the sixth, like the sixth person used less than the others that day and used something_ else_, too."

"What was it?" Anthea asked.

"Nitrous oxide." Molly stated.

"Laughing gas?" Anthea interpreted.

"Yes." Molly confirmed, "It works as a painkiller but also makes a person very suggestible. Mixed with cocaine the effects of both would only be more severe."

"Hmm." Anthea considered, "Perhaps that will mean something to my employer."

"…This is murder victims' blood, isn't it?" Molly guessed, examining the chemical-sensitive papers turned a rainbow of colors.

Anthea only shrugged.

"I don't know." She admitted.

"This blood is all very old." Molly reminded, "Twenty years, maybe…so what would something that happened twenty years ago have to do with Sherlock?"

"I don't know." Anthea repeated, "But you've already 'deduced' the same thing I have, haven't you?"

Molly took a breath.

"You think Jim is involved in this—_whatever it is_—somehow, too." She assumed, "And you think I think that too."

Now Anthea took a breath.

"Has he told you anything about his past?" she asked, "About his childhood? What he did before you met him?"

"No." Molly answered, sighing.

Two years of knowing Jim and seven—almost eight months of being a 'couple' (or as close to one as possible) and Molly knew _nothing._

But if she did know something, she wouldn't tell Anthea or anyone.

And Anthea knew that and so maybe she didn't think Molly was as ignorant and pitiful as she really was in the_ parasitic_ relationship she was in with Jim.

"We don't know either, the government, I mean." Anthea returned, offering a smile and a little laugh, "We actually found out he had a brother_ after_ you did and still there are no records whatsoever of his life. It's a bit unnerving, really…unless he is around Sherlock Holmes, it's as if Jim Moriarty just doesn't exist. It's like his only reason for living is Sherlock and without that he's nobody, _nothing."_

"It's sick." Molly condemned, "Jim is…not a good person. He's insane and obsessed and it's sad. I think I pity him as much as I'm afraid of him and maybe that's why I…"

She trailed off on her half-hearted criticisms, just the right balance of soft and harsh to be believable.

Anthea looked at Molly with the same pity Molly had just claimed to have for Jim.

If someone simply _couldn't help_ doing something, then were they _truly guilty_ for their actions?

Was Jim truly guilty for all the crimes had committed?

(Physical crime_—bad action.)_

Was Molly truly guilty for wanting to be with a criminal?

(Mental crime_—bad idea.)_

Or were they just animals following their instincts?

But Anthea had forgotten that humans _were_ 'just animals'.

And the very fact that humans had invented the concept of choice meant that they had it.

"Thank you for your help, Miss Hooper." Anthea thanked, breaking the oncoming awkward silence after Molly's words before it arrived.

"You're welcome." Molly returned, instinctively (although she really didn't want Anthea to be welcome to give her tests to do on command that wasted her time and gave her little in return), playing the part of the animal she was.

It was such a self-conscious thing to do, 'being yourself'.

You have to figure out what's expected of you and how to live up to that while still doing what you want to.

You have to be all the different versions of 'you' to all the different people who know you.

They're watching you and_ you're_ watching you.

It's an ever-changing role that everyone has to play every day.

The human mind made human life just as more complicated as it made it more _easy._

And that balance created chaos in the human world.

Anthea_ had_ started towards the door but just as Molly was offended and thankful for being underestimated again, she turned back towards her.

"Have you ever considered a job as a government employee?" she asked, all-but offered.

"No." Molly answered, all-but refused.

And with a smile, too.

After all, she did appreciate being appreciated.

* * *

The hours long flight on the small, secret plane was enough time for Sherlock to refresh his Arabic back to fluency, downloading the language from a computer program on his laptop into his brain, and take a short nap.

Sherlock knew this entire trip was a pointless distraction to keep him out of the city so that Mycroft could catch Jim without him knowing about it and if Jim was captured while he was gone, then it would be his own fault and Sherlock honestly just didn't care.

He had only asked Jim to help him because he didn't need Jim 'playing games' with him again, wasting his time when he was trying to find all the criminals Jim had aided and get them to deny both his and Jim's existence.

Sherlock was surprised Jim had actually agreed to this plan (and guessed that he probably had a plan of his own, too) but Jim's help was nothing_ necessary—_just an ironic convenience.

But what really bothered Sherlock was that Jim had never once asked _why._

_Why _was Sherlock going along with Jim's plan to make both of them fakes?

_Why _did Sherlock want his identity as a genius and a detective destroyed?

Jim _must_ have been curious, he _must _have had suspicions…but he never said them outloud.

_Why? _

'Why?' wasn't a question Sherlock liked to focus on.

It was intangible and always subjected to different interpretations, none of them being absolute or provably correct.

He preferred to work in the _'real world'._

_What happened? How did it happen? Where did it happen? Who was involved?_

Once those questions were answers, the 'why' didn't (usually) matter—unless one was emotional, which Sherlock was (usually) _not._

But now Sherlock was wondering why and the emotion was _fear._

Why didn't Jim ask why?

_What was he planning to make happen? How would it happen? Where would it happen? Who would it involve? _

If Mycroft wasn't able to locate and apprehend Jim in the time Sherlock was gone, Sherlock knew he would eventually get the answers to those questions and he doubted that he would like them.

Still, Sherlock wasn't just going to let Jim win—or even tie.

Jim should have been asking questions himself.

_What was Sherlock planning to do to Jim when they were done with the plan? How would that happen? Where would it happen? Who would it involve? _

And, most importantly, the 'why'.

_Why would Sherlock have any reason to allow Jim to live after all he's done, knowing what he's capable of doing, and when he has no use for him?_

_Why? _

After the charter plane had landed on the makeshift 'airstrip' that was really just the Syrian Desert which stretched for miles into Iraq, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Turkey and was often used as a 'trade route' for weapons smugglers.

Today it was empty, the sun was staring down wide-eyed and once the plane's motor had stopped there was no sound.

The gunshots, bombs, protesters' chants and refugees' screams, were far enough away that they seemed silent and even _non-existent_ where Sherlock stood when he exited the plane.

He glanced around at the emptiness, and then back at the plane. He saw the Iraqi pilot in the window, eager to fly away but too loyal to just leave Sherlock all alone in the middle of the deserted desert.

(Loyal to _Sherlock _not to Mycroft (Sherlock refusing to get a ride here from his brother's employees who hadn't arrived yet). Sherlock had taken the Sufi (uninvolved in the struggle between Shi'ites and Sunnis Muslim) man's case, proven that he was neither a terrorist nor a terrorist-sympathizer and gotten him released from Guantanamo Bay.)

Sherlock's head turned when he heard the distant but approaching rumbled of tires.

When the roofless military vehicle (over ten years old, Russian in origin) finally reached the plane and stopped, Sherlock was greeted by the man in a suit in the back seat, who stood to be visible behind his driver and gunman.

"'Jihad Jane'?" he laughed, with a wave, "…I thought you'd be a woman."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You should know better to trust what people tell you on the internet, that was just a screenname." he returned, "But yours, _'The Prophet Mohamed',_ well, that made it obvious that you're not actually a Muslim."

"That was a test." The man explained, "No offense, but westerners are not to be trusted."

"No offense?" Sherlock repeated, "I thought you were_ trying_ to offend me with that 'false idol' to see if I could be 'trusted' as a 'westerner'—which you yourself are, as well, being a Turk."

"I'm secular." The man affirmed, with a smile, "To both religion and politics. The only thing I worship is money. And that makes me very western indeed."

"I don't care about politics or religion." Sherlock dismissed, "Everything I told you on the chatroom in order to get an invitation to this meeting was a lie. I'm not a converted Muslim and I don't work for any organization...But I do have money. Lots of money. And I want those plans. So name your price and sell them to me."

"I'm not the one selling them." The man stated.

"Then take me to who is." Sherlock demanded.

"As you wish, sir." The man allowed, sitting back down in the vehicle and gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

Sherlock gave a nod to the plane's pilot before eyeing the driver and gunman, and then stepping cautiously into the vehicle beside the suited man.

The pilot waited until it had driven away before taking off and flying away.

The truck ride was bumpy and uncomfortable, sand tearing into everyone's eyes the rare times the wind blew.

"You're British, right?" the man assumed, "You're an agent of their government come to reclaim their property."

"If that were true, would you _really_ expect me to admit to it?" Sherlock asked.

He hated _car conversations._

(Stupid attempts to make a situation less 'awkward' and keep from getting bored by calling more attention to the 'awkwardness'—normal people were so insecure and self-conscious, their constant need for communication so _draining.)_

The silence of a long drive allowed him to think and chatter was always annoying.

"No…but you are, aren't you?" the man insisted, "A real secret agent man. I think I'll call you 'James Bond'—no! _'Jihad_ James Bond'. _Perfect!"_

Sherlock groaned, sinking down into his seatbeltless seat and staring out at the desert.

There was nothing.

"You can call me Otto. _Otto Man." _The man said, managing to suppress his snickers for a few seconds before setting them free and further torturing Sherlock.

Sherlock continued to look away from him at nothing…but then there was _something._

Short buildings surrounded by a protective wall. The same color, they almost blended in with the sandy ground.

"That's Tadmor Prison." The man informed.

There were military personnel patrolling the wall that stopped to gaze at the moving vehicle in the distance but did nothing to impede its passage.

"Built by the French as a military base, transferred to the control of the Syrians in the 1940's, suffered a massacre of thousands in the 80's, closed in 2001 and reopened last year." Sherlock recited automatically, before he could stop himself from contributing to the car conversation.

Useless trivia like this that he'd learned on the way over would be deleted as soon as he left Syria.

"Wow, very good!" The man exclaimed, "You're a real smart one, then! What else do you know?"

Sherlock couldn't tell if the man was mocking him or being sincere and both options were equally annoying.

_Why couldn't he just shut up?!_

(There was really only _one_ person who could pull off unfettered praise and seem _believable_ about it and that person was in a country far away praising Sherlock's empty grave.)

"How to be quiet." Sherlock grumbled in response.

And so the man was silent as the vehicle passed the city of Tamur (a literal oasis of green, blue and life kept (usually) safe because of its desert isolation—_and_ it's natural resources including natural gas), also guarded by military personnel who watched the old roofless Russian truck pass.

The man even_ waved_ to them.

Sherlock then realized that everyone in the area must have known about this 'secret auction' for the British Bruce-Partington plans and were happy to let it take place.

He wondered if they'd be just as happy when Mycroft's team of employees landed their helicopters.

Finally, after a few more miles and a lot more minutes of desert, Sherlock could see the destination on the horizon.

The _tourist_ destination.

Palmyra was an ancient city of ruins built in biblical times now open for public sight-seeing.

The vehicle came to a halt allowing the man, his driver, his gunman, and Sherlock to get out and glance around.

Sherlock could see various 'tour groups' (all of their 'tour guides' toting guns) milling around the hollowed buildings and towering pillars, waiting for their 'tour' to begin.

"There's no military here." Sherlock noted, "Wouldn't they be guarding this site?"

"They're taking the day off." The man informed, _"With pay." _

"How convenient." Sherlock commented, then quickly changing the subject, "Now, where is James Moriarty? I know he's the one selling the Bruce-Partington Plans and I want to buy them right now."

The man laughed.

"This is an auction." He explained, "You will have to make your bids just like everyone else…Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm the auctioneer and I'm going to go begin the auction."

Sherlock watched as the man (followed by his driver and gunman) pushed through the crowd of 'tourists' to stand in front of them all on a raised platform of old stone.

James didn't seem to be here but he had to be close and Mycroft's employees were probably searching the nearby town right now, bribing the locals to give up the location of any foreigner who spoke fluent English.

Sherlock decided that doing that was more interesting than standing in the hot sun, listening to an annoying 'auctioneer' talk.

The man was speaking very quickly in Arabic, which at least gave Sherlock a small challenge to focus on.

And then there was something_ else _to focus on.

Sherlock predicted that this argument would start ten minutes before it actually did.

Two men from separate 'tour groups' had seemed to recognize each other out of the corners of their respective eyes.

One was an Egyptian dressed in traditional (yet brand new) robes, as if he'd just come into power.

The other was also an Egyptian, but dressed in an expensive (yet worn out) suit, as if he'd recently lost most of his money and left Egypt in a hurry with only a few suitcases.

The two Egyptians had eyed each other for a while, before attempting to outbid each other and then finally turning and confronting each other.

"You betrayed our country!" the second shouted.

"I _saved _our country!" the first countered.

"You are an insane zealot!" the second declared.

"You are traitor to our god and our people!" the first retorted.

And their 'tour groups' did _not_ hold them back as they began to brawl, instead joining the fight themselves.

The gunman and driver _tried_ to break them up and the man_ tried_ to continue the auction but was unable and watched as other groups decided it was time to settle their disputes as well.

_Suddenly, the war was here. _

Frantically, he ran through the shouts and punches towards Sherlock who couldn't help but chuckle at the mess.

"So I assume it was _your_ brilliant idea to invite opposing sects to the same meeting." Sherlock scoffed.

"I thought I could unite them against a common enemy, The West." The man stated, "The extremists_ never_ liked the Europeans and the Americans, and now that those governments are no longer supporting the western-imposed dictatorships in North Africa and the Middle East, the ex-dictators and their supporters hate them too. I thought that this could be the time we put aside our differences and rise up against The West."

Sherlock snorted.

"You thought this could be the time you got _rich."_ He dismissed, "How much did Moriarty pay you to put together this ridiculous thing? Probably not very muchsince you're_ stupid_ enough to do it. Now where is he, anyway? Trying to use this 'political unrest' as a diversion so he can escape?"

"I don't know." The man shrugged, "I've never even met him in person. He contacted me over the internet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, groaned and_ vowed _to get back at Mycroft for putting him through this as soon as he returned home.

And he was going home_ now._

Sherlock didn't care about this 'mission' (waste of time), that he had technically failed (not that there was much chance of success in the first place), and that Mycroft would get angry.

And when he got back to London, Sherlock would find and deal with Sebastian Moran himself.

"Take me back to that town." He demanded, "I'm leaving."

"But what about the auction?" the man asked.

Sherlock said nothing, just shook his head as he started to the roofless military vehicle.

That's when he heard the sputtering and dusty arrival of_ more_ military vehicles.

These were neither old, nor Russian—they were _Syrian _and full of Syrian soldiers.

The Palmyra ruins were surrounded by a small army of camouflage trucks and gunmen who apparently only had _half_ a day off (with pay).

The arguments paused to stare as the soldiers disembarked from their vehicles and marched menacingly towards the crowd, brandishing their weapons.

Uniting against the common enemy, all at once the crowd _scattered._

'Tourists' ran in all directions and into the ruins, hiding inside crumbling buildings made of sand and stone as the soldiers chased them.

However, it was not soldiers that approached Sherlock—well, actually it _was._

Two Syrian soldiers holding guns accompanied James from the truck they'd exited towards where Sherlock and the man stood on the edge of the ancient city.

"Turning yourself in, 'Professor Moriarty'?" Sherlock greeted, sarcastically.

"Oh, so now you know my name." James responded, "You never bothered to learn it when I was trying to help you pass secondary school classes."

"You never let anybody say it." Sherlock recounted, "You kept it a secret so you could help your insane brother commit crimes without attracting attention. That's why you agreed to tutor me when I was a teenager, isn't it? To spy on me and my brother on behalf him? You're just his _minion, _despite being older."

They spoke in English so the man and the Syrian soldiers just stood there confused, trying to understand the small amounts they could.

"You're trying to insult me? Get me angry?" James dismissed, "You're not as good as my brother. He's the only one who can and he's _alive,_ by the way. Did Mycroft tell you that?"

"_Jim_ told me that." Sherlock corrected, "But why did _you?_ I thought you wanted to protect him."

"I want to make peace." James stated.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

James gestured over at the game of hide-and-seek tag the Syrian soldiers were playing with the fleeing terrorists in the ruins.

"These people are enemies of the British government." He explained, "I lured them all here using outdated plans that would be useless to them if they ever did get their hands on them—which they won't. And then I leaked the date and location of this meeting so your brother's employees would find out about it. Now, you came to arrest me and you wouldn't have come alone. You must have enough people to capture all these criminals."

"You want me to arrest these terrorists instead of you?" Sherlock inferred, "But what's stopping me from bringing all of them _and _you to the latest unofficial prison my brother's set up underground somewhere?"

"Well, other than the fact that there is absolutely no reason to," James suggested, "you might want me _not _to tell your brother that you are working with mine."

"I'm not working with your brother." Sherlock denied, "If he told you that, he's lying."

"He didn't tell me anything." James said, "I'm not in contact with him."

"Then it was _Moran_ who lied to you." Sherlock rephrased.

"I'm not in contact with _him_ either." James repeated.

"Then your other sources or your psychic powers were wrong." Sherlock decided, with finality, "Because I'd never be foolish enough to work with Jim Moriarty. He's a…uh… what's the word, again?—oh, yes, a _liability_. Isn't that what you businesspeople say? A liability."

"I know you're working with Jim because you wouldn't be bothering with _me_ if he were a threat." James replied, "And you wouldn't be bothering with me at all if Mycroft hadn't forced you. And since Mycroft wasn't the one to tell you that Jim was alive, then he doesn't know that you know. And since he doesn't know that you know, he still thinks Jim is a threat. And since he still thinks Jim is a threat, he's trying to take care of that threat without you knowing, which is why he forced you to be here."

"That rationalization uses the logic that my brother is able to force me to do _anything."_ Sherlock countered, "And the logic that Jim is ever _not_ a threat. Both are extremely flawed."

James sighed, almost defeated.

"So, then, do you want to do your brother a favor and arrest me…or spite him and let me go?" he tried.

"I'm not so petty as to let a dangerous criminal go free just to spite my older brother." Sherlock said.

"I'm not a 'dangerous criminal'." James reminded, "But my brother _Jim _is."

"Then why did you protect him all these years?" Sherlock asked, "You know what he is and you don't seem to like it. But if you couldn't bring yourself to have him killed, why not just cut off all contact, change your name and hide? Why help him?"

"Why does your brother always help you?" James returned, with a shrug.

But there was no concrete, logical, _true_ reason for it.

Just emotion.

'Why' was a really stupid question.

"You'll always help Jim." Sherlock interpreted, "That makes you just as dangerous and just as guilty as he is."

"No—" James attempted.

But he was interrupted by the sound of multiple black helicopters in the sky, casting dark shadows onto the whitehot desert.

* * *

**Sorry for no actual Jim in this chapter, that wasn't exactly planned but I'm very sleepy.**

**Again, if anything was confusing please ask me to explain. **

**I put interesting places into my fanfiction because I'm too poor (and too scared) to travel. **

**Wikipedia is addictive. **

**I hope no one is offended by anything I wrote. **

**'Fred' was a stupid teenager and is now an insane prisoner. **

**I wanted to play with 'unreliable narrator' and so a lot of what he said was deliberately incorrect and/or offensive. **

**Anyway...**

**'Fred' was supposed to be the reference to Freddie Mercury, who died 1991.**

**Amy to Amy Winehouse who died 2011. **

**Mike to Michael Jackson who died 2009. **

**and Jan to Janis Joplin who died in sometime in the 70's. **

**This was like the 'music' chapter at first.**

**Why?  
**

**I'm not exactly sure.**

**Btw, the song 'Pavlove' by Fallout Boy is one of the theme songs to this story, on a music related note (haha, get it, I said 'note'). **

**There are more I've chosen but I can't remember them right now. **

**Maybe other people have ideas?**

**Or if not (and if so), reviews...**


	21. Keep the Light in the Dark

**Haven't updated in forever. **

**I'm on fall break so I had like 4 days to write. Not much to show for it. **

**Thank you to UrieNanashi who reviewed out of the blue and convinced me not to just let this story quietly fade away (as if it hasn't already lol). **

**And hank you to all those who have ever reviewed, and those who've kept in touch even when I'm not updating. **

**This: **

**post/32604162294/reichenbach-explanation-richard-brook-was-real**

**(google it, it will be the first search response)**

**has shaken my faith in the existence of both Jim and my own intelligence. **

**That being said, it's really interesting and probably completely correct. **

**Luckily, we still have about a year until it's technically cannon. **

**I'll try to make the best of it. **

**I'll try to finish this story.**

**Probably nine more chapters after this one. **

**If anybody reviews.**

**If not, I'll move on.**

**I have some new ideas formulating anyway (as well as, you know, school work)...**

**Hope this chapter's okay! **

* * *

Black towncars screeched to the curb in front of the gray office building, releasing twenty-four black-suited men (and one black-skirtsuited woman).

"Search the building and surrounding area." Anthea ordered.

The men in black suits nodded, but just as soon as they started to move twenty-three men in gray uniforms emerged from the building to block them.

And so then, of course, the guns were drawn.

"You can't go in there." Samantha declared, "I don't care if you're from the government, you don't have the right to search us."

"Your boss, Mr. Porlock, called the government." Anthea countered, "He asked my boss to send people here to get Jim Moriarty."

"Jim Moriarty is no longer here because Mr. Porlock made him leave." Samantha disagreed, "Go look for him somewhere else, we don't have him."

"I'd like to verify that for myself." Anthea stated, heading again for the front doors of the office building.

Pantsuit moved to stand in skirtsuit's way and the confrontation continued.

Meanwhile, three_ more_ cars slammed to a stop in front of the office building.

Out jumped Moran, Lestrade and John (out of their respective vehicles), all also holding guns.

"Where is he?!" the three demanded, scanning the crowd outside for that painstakingly familiar face.

Instead, John saw Moran and Moran saw John.

For a moment everyone just stared.

* * *

_(hours earlier...)_

* * *

The office building was just an office building.

It had a floor for files of former, current and prospective employees, it had a floor for former, current and prospective clients, _and_ it had a floor for former (eliminated), current (in the process of being eliminated) and prospective (to be eliminated) target.

It also had a waiting-room on the bottom floor, underground parking floors, a gym of exercise equipment, and multiple floors for offices of current employees (well, the ones that actually used offices) including the top floor for the (regional) boss and his personal staff.

(There was also a secret weapons storage room on a floor that did not exist on the official building plans.)

What it did _not_ have was a jail, a prison, a dungeon or any sort of structure that could properly confine a _(determined)_ person who others wanted (for whatever reason) to be confined.

Luckily, tonight Jim Moriarty was not a determined person.

"Lock him in a room and don't let him out of your sight." Samantha ordered the two gray-uniformed employees that she was in charge of.

They stood stiffly (rigid, uncomfortable—even a bit _nervous),_ grasping one arm of Jim each, as if they were metal restraints instead of human beings.

"Yes, ma'am." They nodded, in a practiced unison they no doubt learned in the military.

"Follow me." Samantha added, then starting down hall from the waiting room towards the doors to the stairs, by passing the elevators (they wanted to lock Jim in a room, not be locked in a room _with_ him).

Jim said nothing as the two men escorted him through the corridor, then the doors, and then up the seemingly _never-ending_ flights of stairs.

Speak when spoken to.

It was the polite thing to do, wasn't it?

And Jim was sure he'd be spoken to, _eventually._

Just like his name that 'spoke for itself', his silence was as frightening as his words. Just like the dark (the unknown) itself was as frightening as the monsters that lurked in the shadows.

Of course, huffing and puffing _(like the big bad wolf)_ because he'd gotten tired climbing up all those stairs _(because he was about to blow the house down)_ didn't count as _talking._

Jim had long lost count of the flights and the floors when he 'accidentally' tripped on a step, falling forward but immediately being pulled back upwards by the two employees, causing a whiplash that made him even more out of breath.

"Careful, _'Mr.'_ Moriarty." Samantha warned, measuredly, indicating _both _the concrete steps beneath their feet and the metal gun in her pantsuit pocket.

Ahead of the men, she turned around on the stair above to glare down at Jim suspiciously.

The employees halted, holding Jim still.

"I haven't been on stair-climber in a while and so I'm a little out of shape." Jim explained, apologetically, "Do you mind if we stop and rest for a while?"

Samantha rolled her eyes.

"Keep moving." She said, returning forwards and continuing up the flights of stairs.

The men in gray marched after her, now having to drag Jim along.

But the talking had begun. Jim just had to keep the mystery and Samantha would investigate.

After only a few more footsteps, she spoke again.

"You want us to think you're tired and weak so we let our guard down." She inferred, "But you tried to break in here for a reason. What do you want?"

"'Tried'?" Jim repeated, snorting, _"'Tried'_ to break in? I'm inside right now."

"You're also in our custody." Samantha reminded.

Her employees tightened their grips of Jim to further remind him as they all walked.

"Oh. Right. Almost forgot about that." Jim acknowledged, "Which reminds me…You don't have the legal authority to detain me here. This is false imprisonment and I could get you all arrested for this."

"And yourself arrested for breaking in." Samantha returned, "And why did you come here, anyway? To steal something? Information?"

"I came for a visit." Jim shrugged (or as tried to, at least), "I want to see your boss. Is he in?"

"No, he's not; it's the middle of the night!"

"Then why are_ you_ here?"

"_Nice try._ I'm not going to tell you the details of my job."

"Aw, that's too bad, it'd probably be an interesting story. No military experience, but experienced with a gun. The only woman working in the entire building, but outranks almost all the men. That means you have money. _A lot _of money. Now, don't tell me you're in the process of buying up this whole company…"

Samantha said nothing to this, not even glancing at Jim (or the gray-uniformed men) and so everyone walked in silence, staring straight ahead at walls and backs or down at stairs and feet.

Finally, after what felt like hours (ten minutes (—still, ten minutes of stairs)) they reached the doors to their destination, which Samantha unlocked with a cardkey and then held open.

"Thank you, ma'am." The employees thanked, as they pulled Jim (who winked at her on his way in) through.

Oppressive_-and_-depressively gray, Jim was _underwhelmed_ despite having the honor of being imprisoned on the top floor (where there were no weapons or sensitive files for him to steal).

"Why bring me all the way up here?" he asked, gazing around at the darkened waiting-room with its empty front desk, "Because it's good exercise?"

"So I can watch you while I decide whether we're going to kill you or just turn you over to someone else who will." Samantha explained, gesturing to the glass walls of the currently unoccupied offices—one of which she pointed at, "Put him in mine." She told the men under her command.

"Yes, ma'am." They accepted and began their task.

"How generous of you, sacrificing your secrets to me to protect your fellow employees'." Jim commented, looking back Samantha who was now following him (and the gray-uniformed employees), "So what do the glass walls represent here? Transparency? Having nothing to hide? Or are they purposefully ironic?"

"We see everything." Samantha stated, matter-of-factly, "And we trust no one—not even each other."

"My kind of work environment." Jim chuckled, "You hiring?"

"Quiet down." was Samantha's hushed and only response.

Jim raised an eyebrow at the abrupt end of the conversation. He was being pushed past rows of transparent rooms, each with names on their doors, all the way to the one marked 'Samantha'.

" Just 'Samantha'?" He read aloud, "How degrading. And here I thought you were _'one of the boys'_. Guess you're more like the pretty little token—unless, of course, you're _embarrassed_ by your last name and whatever _associations_ it has. You wouldn't be the first."

But Samantha didn't retort or say anything at all, instead hurriedly ushering the uniformed men to lock Jim inside the office more quickly.

Before they could, however, the lights burst on and brightened the entire hallway into squinting.

"What are you all doing here? What's going on?"

Jim, Samantha and the two other nameless men adjusted their eyes to see Porlock walking towards them from his opaque office at the end of the hall.

"Mr. Porlock…" Samantha greeted awkwardly, in surprise, "I didn't think you would be here…"

"That's Jim Moriarty." Porlock identified, "Why is _he_ here and _why_ didn't anyone alert me to this?"

Sensing the impending argument, Jim turned to both men holding his arms and grinning at each of their (nervous, attempting to be blank and impartial) faces in turn before turning back to watch.

"He broke in here, we don't know why." Samantha recounted, "I was waiting until the situation had been resolved to bother you with this."

"'Resolved'?" Porlock repeated, "_…How so?" _

"Although we have no legal authority to execute him, a criminal like Moriarty is too dangerous to let live. We could kill him here or find other criminal, enemies of his, who will do it for us and keep our hands clean. "

Porlock sighed, shaking his head.

"Oh, Sam, what have I told you about just killing all your problems? Killing is a _waste. _Each person is more useful to us alive than dead, even people like him."

"Sir, I disagree. Having him here would hurt us far more it could ever help—"

"_So why is he still here?_ If he broke in here, that means he _wants_ to be in the building. You should have kicked him out immediately upon finding him."

"You're saying I should've let him go? Just like that?"

"_Yes._ He's not _our _problem and I don't want him to _become_ one. Get him out of here right now."

The gray-uniformed employees started to move Jim back towards the stairs.

"Stop!" Samantha called after them, then addressing Porlock again, "We can't allow back on the streets."

The gray-uniformed employees stopped.

"Then call authorities." Porlock suggested, "They can deal with him. I just don't want him here."

"The authorities can't be trusted to 'deal' with him." Samantha disagreed, "The police arrested him, the courts tried him and he still went free. Mycroft Holmes had him in custody just last month and now he's already escaped."

"Then that's government business and it's not our job to get into government business—unless we're hired to, that is." Porlock decided, "Let's not upset that status-quo."

Jim laughed, purposefully loud enough that everybody else stopped speaking and turned to look at him.

"Ignore him." Porlock warned, instantly, "He's trying to unnerve us with his laughter, make us fear that his has the upperhand so that he can gain it. Next he'll say things to that will cause us to question eachother and argue amongst ourselves, so that we'll be too distracted to prevent him from getting what he wants."

Jim laughed again.

"I don't even _need_ to do that." He dismissed, facing Porlock and then Samantha, "You two are already doing it for me, with your stern daddy, rebellious daughter spat—if nurture really is the nature of your relationship. What _would_ the general say… _In fact,_ what would the _colonel _say. Big brother Sebastian had to have wondered why circumspect Mr. Porlock agreed to hire a trigger-happy tiger like him."

"See what I mean?" Porlock demonstrated, gesturing to Jim in example.

"The only way Moriarty could have known all that was from reading government files." Samantha replied, "The reason he's not dead or in prison right now is probably because Holmes sent him here to mess with us."

"All the more reason to make him leave." Porlock accepted, then turning to his other employees, "Take him back downstairs and kick him out. Put guards at all the doors to make sure he doesn't come back. Then check the building to make sure nobody else got in while we were all talking up here."

"Yes sir." The men in gray agreed.

"Why don't you just them to take him outside and shoot him?" Samantha proposed, "Then we won't have to worry about him ever getting back in."

"If he is indeed working for the government like you suspect, we can't have him killed." Porlock explained, "Don't shoot him, don't injure him in any way. I don't want this company to be an enemy of the state."

"It's a tad late for that, wouldn't you think?" Jim snorted, "You did interfere with a government operation by stealing my mobile phone—which, by the way, I want back."

"Why? The keycode is useless now that anybody can get it." Samantha stated, taken aback, "That was why Mr. Porlock had the website made."

"The phone still works, though…" Jim shrugged "Unless somebody broke it. But what really bothers me, 'Mr.' Porlock, is that you don't 'waste' people by killing them but you waste a code, which combined with your resources, you could've used to take over the world."

"Why would I want to take over the world?" Porlock chuckled dismissively, "There's enough war already and I've got a comfortable life the way things are. Why add unnecessary stress to my life?"

"For fun?" Jim suggested.

Porlock rolled his eyes.

"Get him out of here right now." He commanded, gesturing towards the exit doors at the end of the hall but already turning and starting back towards his office where his landline was located.

His employees nodded, then shoving Jim in the other direction towards the stairs. They took one last glance at Samantha who was glaring at her boss's back, shaking her head in frustration but not defeat.

As soon as Porlock had returned to his office and Jim and the gray-uniformed employees had gone down the stairs, Samantha pulled out her cellphone.

* * *

Sitting in the back of the towncar that picked Mycroft Holmes up from the maximum security prison he'd spent all afternoon at, Anthea had of questions.

None were answered.

Instead, she received _orders._

Go to Scotland Yard's evidence archives, pick up the decades old bloodsamples of six peoples, get them analyzed secretly, tell no one.

Oh, and by the way, Jim Moriarty must be captured alive.

"Why?" Anthea had asked.

"Because I still need him, for one more thing." Mycroft had answered.

—Except it wasn't _really_ an answer.

Still, Anthea had orders to follow and (hours later) it was with great confusion, suspicion and dissatisfaction that she relayed these orders to Moran (who she knew was_ not_ going to take this well).

She exited the hospital with drugtests (which Molly had done for her) to meet Moran on dimly-lit street outside.

"I'd find Jim a lot quicker if I didn't have to check in with you every four hours." He grumbled, "I'm not going to try to escape. I've wanted to kill Jim for a long time and now I finally have an employer who wants me to."

"…Well, actually…" Anthea began, twiddling her thumbs against the paperbag full of bloodsamples and their readings because she wasn't holding her smartphone to text, "…Mr. Holmes wants him captured alive now..."

"Why." Moran questioned.

—Except it wasn't _really_ a question.

It was more an exclamatory tone-of-voice disguised in an interrogative word.

"He didn't tell me why." Anthea sighed, folding her arms to keep from throwing them up in frustration, "…don't you hate it when they do that?"

"Yeah..." Moran agreed, nodding. He then noticed the bag in her hand and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "What's that?"

Anthea just shrugged and shook her head hopelessly.

Moran stared up at the dark sky, _almost _rolling his eyes and hiding the fact that he was clenching his fist by shoving them into his jacket pockets.

Anthea looked up too, but there was nothing to see. Just darkness.

It was almost always too cloudy to see the stars…but every once in a while the moon would peer out. White against the black from behind the gray.

"…You know…my boss never asked me why I did what I did, _with you,_ that day on the island…" Anthea mused, "…Did yours?"

"He's not my employer anymore." Moran stated, steady and careful, "…and no. He didn't."

He knew he still wasn't trusted and so even _seemingly_ friendly and casual conversation could always be a _test. _

_Was_ always a test because, just like his guard was always up, so was Anthea's.

"I'm sure they both had their _suspicions,_ though, of course." Anthea added, "But less of their own employee's motives and more of the other side's. And yet they never asked _why_—they never_ thought _to ask why."

"Why would they care?" Moran asked, with a short and emotionless shrug.

"They don't." Anthea answered.

—Except it wasn't _really_ an answer.

…at least not to the (mostly) rhetorical question posed, using a definitive because although the question was speculative the answer was definitely definite.

"Then why do _you?"_ Moran provoked, "Because_ I_ don't. A job is a job. An employer is an employer. Orders are orders."

"Yes, and that's why you _do_ care." Anthea returned, "We give up_ everything_, just to be interchangeable pawns, doing whatever we're told and never knowing why. And when we don't know _why _we're doing something, we just have to trust the one we're doing it for—but they don't trust _us,_ they don't even _care_ about us. That doesn't _bother _you?"

"No." Moran said, "…and I don't think it bothers you, either. You wouldn't do the job if it did."

Anthea smiled.

"You're right, it doesn't really bother me, I don't care." She admitted, laughing, "It's just a way of life; not good or bad…And you _understand,_ right? You know what it's like…_Just like me." _

"Yes." Moran said.

"And that's the why." Anthea interpreted, "The answer to the question our employers never asked. Why we did what we did. Because we're the only ones who understand eachother."

Finally, Moran allowed his stoic face to smirk with an accompanying snort.

"You women always have to make everything so complicated." He replied.

"We're also always right." Anthea reminded.

"Yes, ma'am." Moran accepted, with a nod and even a smile.

Mostly, his job required him never to act on or display emotion…but sometimes, some rare times, it _didn't._

(The question, of course, was which face was the mask and that question, of course, had no answer.)

Before Anthea and Moran could continue their _seemingly_ friendly and casual conversation, both felt their phones vibrate.

Neither made any indication to the other that this had happened, just in case the text received was something that they didn't want the other to know about.

"We have work to do." Anthea decided, "Contact me if you find Jim. Remember, Mr. Holmes needs him alive, Mr. Moran. _Alive."_

"Alive?" Moran 'checked', "Well, ma'am, I'll try my best…"

Anthea just gave him a _look,_ before rushing away to check her smartphone inside the towncar conveniently idling around outside the hospital.

Once it had driven away, Moran pulled out his phone to read the text he'd just received from his sister.

* * *

Only the sound of footsteps hurrying down the stairs broke the suspenseful and uncomfortable silence between Jim and the two gray-uniformed guards stationed at his sides.

—Well it was suspenseful and uncomfortable for the guards, at least. Jim already knew what was going to happen.

Samantha would call her brother to come kill Jim, knowing that Jim wasn't working for the government because she knew that Moran was and would have told her and knowing that Porlock would never suspect Moran of doing the killing.

But having Moran come to the office building was not enough. The puzzle needed its other piece, the 'yang' needed its 'yin'.

John Watson.

"…So…" Jim began, "Who're you two gonna side with when the civil war finally breaks out between the bosslady and the bossman?"

The employees said nothing.

They were good at that.

They were also good at holding on very tightly to their prisoners—too good.

Jim 'tripped', falling forwards down the stairs and pulling the men grabbing his arms down with him.

Reflexively their hands let go of Jim so their arms could flail in an attempt to regain their balance. Taller and more muscular (and so heavier) than Jim, their balance was regrettably much more difficult to regain.

But Jim had only pretended to fall.

Quickly, he was back standing upright and _free._

This plan would have never worked on an elevator.

Now the gray-uniformed employees were facedown at the bottom of this flight of concrete stairs. Facedown…but _not_ knocked out.

Jim ran back up the steps the way they'd come and had already climbed to the next floor by the time his pursuers were up and perusing him.

Using one of the two stolen cardkeys…

(Being held by the arms on both sides gave Jim's hands the ability to reach into the pockets of both the men holding him. As (what they thought was a brilliant) precaution, the men had moved their guns to the sides not in reach of Jim's hand—and so their keycards into the reachable pockets.)

…Jim opened the door to the nearest floor (where some sensitive files were kept or something—they'd have saved so much space and money had they just stored their files digitally) from where he leisurely took the elevator all the way downstairs to the lobby, then exiting the office building out the front door.

Meanwhile, without their keycards, the uniformed employees were unable to leave of the staircase and so were forced to call for backup (to find Jim in case he was stealing files or weapons from the building—and to get them out).

_Who did they call? _

(Not Ghostbusters.)

All the available employees of the security and defense contracting company currently in London via a mass-text.

And one of these employees just happened to be Gregory Lestrade (seen by Irene Adler in gray uniform outside the courthouse) who also just happened to be friends with John Watson.

* * *

John woke up upon hearing the loud and grating sound of a cellphone vibrating against wood. If someone was texting him in the middle of the night, it had to be _important._

Literally, John 'slept like a log' at night; legs together and arms at his sides. He was used to the small, uncomfortable barrack beds of the army and his sister's couch was about the same.

(M_etaphorically,_ though, John slept like a log being tossed around against the rocks in the rapids of a river. He had bad dreams. What made them bad was that they were _real.)_

He reached down, grabbed the phone from the floor and sat up to read the message from Lestrade on the glowing screen in the darkness of the living room.

Out of habit (training), John always kept his shoes by his bed (which currently was a couch).

In seconds, they were tied and on his feet.

Although his sister had been the one to sneak out of the house late at night (or back in, early in the morning) when they were teenagers, John was able to cross the room and get out the front door in complete silence (after quietly borrowing her car keys).

And as shocked and angry as he was, John couldn't help but laugh bitterly to himself as he drove (just barely on the speed limit).

At 1:30 AM it was now Saturday, July 14th.

Today was the day that Mycroft had promised to show him and Lestrade proof that Moriarty was dead.

_Well, maybe they'd still get to see that, after all…_

* * *

Molly's nightshift ended at five in the morning.

…but she left at one.

On her way back from getting coffee and a snack from the cafeteria, Molly saw that the men in black suits normally shadowing her were go no longer 'guarding' (watching) her.

They were gone.

She didn't know why and she had nobody she could trust to ask.

_What happened?_

_Why did they leave? _

_Had Jim finally been caught?_

Instead of going returning to her work, Molly walked right past the lab. She hurried through the white halls and out the front doors of the hospital to find the usual black towncars were gone from the front parkinglot.

Alone and unfollowed, Molly worried (heart pounding, whole body shaking) the entire train ride home (that seemed hours long).

Just before two, she entered her flat and flipped on the lights.

"Hello...?" She called out, not even expecting an echo.

But an echo was what she got.

"_Hello."_ Jim's voice responded, smugly _(proudly,_ even for he'd successfully kept his word).

She followed the sound into her bed room where she saw Jim sitting on her bed, waiting for her.

(She would've sighed in relief, rushed to him and embraced him…but he would've just laughed her for being so unnecessarily distraught.)

His suit and hair were slightly disheveled, liked he'd recently been running (away from someone?) and maybe even been in some sort of physical struggle.

Next to him also sat her two suitcases, full of the clothing she'd brought back from her sister's house. They, too, seemed to be waiting for her.

"They're not following me anymore, the people from the government..." Molly told him, attempting to gage the situation "I didn't see them anywhere. They just left."

"Yes, I'm sure they're a bit busy at the moment." Jim agreed, standing and smirking, "…And they'll be that way just long enough for us to go."

"Go?" Molly repeated, questioningly, "Go where?"

"Business trip." Jim answered, matter-of-factly, "I'll tell you the details on the way…of course, you don't _have_ to go if you don't want to. I kinda like having a 'girl back home' to come back to, so it's really up you if you wanna come along or not."

"Is this for Sherlock? Part of whatever his plan is?"

"Naturally. Although, I don't know what the grand scheme actually is. I just have to trust in the divine will of my all-knowing 'employer'."

"Sherlock won't like it if I go with you. He doesn't want anyone else involved—especially not _me."_

"I don't care, do you?"

Jim eyed Molly.

The answer was supposed to be a simple 'no' and then they would go.

But answers were never simple, no they were rarely even _answers._ More often they were just _more_ questions.

"You really want me to go with you, Jim?" Molly inquired, doubtful and hopeful, "You don't think I'd just…slow you down?"

The poor thing always needed Jim's reassurance and approval. She needed to be wanted, she needed to be needed.

(And this needed to be _his_ idea. So that he thought he was the god rewarding his loyal believer. So that he _thought_ he was in control.)

"I like to take things slow, _savor_ them." Jim shrugged, "And _I don't _like to work alone. I suppose I could find somebody else but I've already got you and that's much more convenient—for me that is. Not for you."

"…what do you mean 'not for' me?" Molly asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jim laughed, throwing his head back in almost a cackle. Then he looked forward, directly into Molly's eyes.

"If you go with me now, it changes everything. Sure, the spooks are busy now but once they're done being distracted, they'll figure out you've gone with me. That means you won't be another one of my 'innocent' victims, you'll be helping me and they'll know. _Everyone_ will know. Mycroft'll know, all his employees'll know, even your 'friends' John and Greg'll know. But none of them will know that we're working for Sherlock. They'll just think I corrupted you. They'll think you're big bad criminal, _like_ _me_ and there'll be nothing you can do to prove otherwise. So if you go with me now, you can't go back."

And she looked back at him, directly into his eyes.

"I don't care, do you?"

* * *

_(...and back to the present.)_

* * *

There was no longer any rubble to trip over nor broken glass to reflect the streetlights lighting the street in front of the office building at night.

Towering above like all the others on the street, the company's headquarters was completely repaired (both physically and reputation-wise from the 'MORIARTY' attack)—and it wanted to stay that way.

But…

Samantha had texted Moran, and Porlock had called Mycroft, who'd called Anthea, who'd called all the black-suited employees and one of the gray-uniformed employees had sent a mass message asking for back-up to all the other employees, one of whom was Lestrade who'd texted John.

…and so, at roughly two in the morning, around fifty people stood on the sidewalk in front of this office building.

Pointing guns at each other.

((Where an ex-military doctor and an ex-Detective Inspector (both civilians possessing no legal means or source) had gotten guns from, Anthea did not know (or how they'd even known to come here) but there John and Lestrade were, aiming their weapons at Sebastian Moran…

..and how a man who'd been convicted of (and confessed to) blowing up three London buildings and who'd been seen marched away to prison was able to walk around freely with a gun, John and Lestrade did not know but there he was, as well.))

"…_You?"_ John exclaimed in shock, confusion and anger.

Moran stopped when he heard John's voice.

"_Not now…"_ he complained, instantly realizing why Jim had 'randomly' chosen to visit this particular office, "I don't have time for this. I have to go find my target."

He tried to walk past John, but John and Lestrade raised their guns towards him (which 'forced' him to do the same to them).

"You're not going anywhere." John declared, narrowing his eyes, "Why are you here? Who is your 'target'?"

"Same as yours." Moran stated.

"Moriarty?" John asked, disbelievingly, "I thought you were working for him. That's why you were arrested, isn't it?"

"It's a long story…" Moran dismissed.

"Tell it." John requested, gesturing for him to speak with a wave of the gun.

"The longer we talk here, the more time we waste." Moran replied, "Jim's escaping right now. He was here less than thirty minutes ago and he can't have gone far. If you'd just get that gun out of my face—"

"And do _what?_ Let you go? I don't think so." John scoffed, "If Moriarty's alive and really _was_ here, he could've sent _you_to stop me and Greg from getting to him."

"He didn't—"

"And even if you're _not _working for him, you still killed ten people in Afghanistan and shot me—"

"That was never proven—"

"So I'm not letting a murderer like you out of my sight."

"Then whatever Jim does from now on is _your_ fault. He got away from all of us because of you. You're doing exactly what he knew you would."

Shaking his head and sighing defeated, Moran just put his gun back into his jacket pocket.

He wasn't allowed to kill Jim anymore, and he knew that if he shot John it would be the last thing he ever did so there was no point in even having the weapon out.

John could threaten him all morning and Moran didn't blame him.

However, resolving this situation was Anthea's problem.

Finally, she was striding over to the street where they stood (followed by her employees in black suits) having just finished whatever discussion (argument) she'd had with Samantha who was now going back inside the office building (followed by her employees in gray uniforms).

Moran, John and Lestrade watched Anthea approach.

None of them (not even Moran) had expected her to be here, too.

As John was busy with Moran, Lestrade turned to Anthea. Giving her the 'benefit of the doubt', he didn't point his gun at her.

"And what are _you _doing here?" he asked, still accusingly, "Looking for Moriarty when you and your boss were the ones to tell me and John he was dead?"

"I'm really very sorry about this." Anthea apologized (but didn't answer the questions), "I want you and Doctor Watson to understand that none of this was supposed to happen."

Lestrade took a breath.

"…so he really _is_ alive, then." He interpreted, disappointedly, "Moriarty's been alive and you and Mr. Holmes knew about it but didn't tell us."

"We were taking care of it." Anthea attempted.

"Some job you've done of that since he's still alive." Lestrade snorted. "And how were you 'taking care' of it, anyway? By using _him,_ Sebastian Moran, 'terrorist bomber'?" he motioned to Moran, "I saw you and your people take him away after the trail. Don't tell me_ you_ were the one to let him out."

"Moran is, in fact, working for the British government." Anthea confirmed, now addressing both Lestrade and John, "So I'd appreciate if you lowered your weapons."

"Not a chance." John refused, "You know who he is, you know what he's done. Why the_ hell _would you let him out of prison?"

"He was right for the job." Anthea shrugged.

"You_ really_ trust him?" Lestrade questioned, in disbelief, "This man _admitted_ to working for Moriarty."

"I said it was a long story." Moran repeated, _almost_ chuckling bitterly.

"He can be trusted." Anthea ensured, "Now lower your weapons."

In demonstration, the many black-suited employees surrounding them pointed their guns at the outnumbered John and Lestrade.

Lestrade lowered his gun.

John did not.

Instead, he laughed.

It was the sound of a twig snapping after being bent too far.

"If you're going to shoot me just shoot me! What are you waiting for?! I've got a gun, so you've got an excuse—not that you'd_ need _one. You know you can get away it. You're the _government,_ you can do whatever you want! So just do it! Shoot me!"

Deliberately out-of-character (formulated specifically with the right amount of desperation and seriousness to balance its defeated nonchalance), the outburst had unnerved all those who'd heard it.

Anthea opened her mouth to speak, but John continued now even aiming his gun at her for full effect.

"Mycroft _avoids_ us, _lies_ to us and then _hires a criminal_ who worked for Moriarty. Well, I'm not stupid and I don't think _Mycroft _was stupid enough to 'accidentally' tell Moriarty all the information he used to set Sherlock up, either. After all the lies he's told, how do I know he wasn't helping Moriarty the whole time? How do I know he isn't helping Moriarty now?"

"He's not!" Anthea exclaimed, "He's been trying to catch him!"

"Why should I believe that?" John demanded, still pointing his gun at her (and having all the black-suited men point their guns at him in return), "Why should I believe _anything_ you say?"

"John, stop—"Lestrade attempted, going over to John and trying to get the gun away from him.

"You know they're going to shoot you too." John responded by directing the gun towards Lestrade (but only so he would back away—and he did).

Once Lestrade was out of the way, John returned his aim towards Moran. Moran raised his arms in unenthusiastic surrender and shot an annoyed glance over at Anthea.

She signaled to employees in suits to lower their weapons, then stepped between Moran and John.

"We're not going to kill anyone." She promised, "As I said before, none of this was supposed to happen and I'm sorry. My employer and I did our best to keep you and Mr. Lestrade out of this—"

"That's your problem." Lestrade interrupted, "You trust people like him" (he pointed at Moran who rolled his eyes) "and leave me and John in dark when we were just trying to help."

"It was for your own protection…" Anthea tried, her words as futile as her effort and her voice sighing that defeat.

"Some job you've done of that, as _I _said before." Lestrade returned, also sighing sadly, then gesturing to John, "Look at him. Don't you think he's been through enough?"

But when Anthea and Lestrade looked at John (who had just been acting as if he's suffered a mental breakdown) he was now coldly calm as he released the safety of his gun.

"Okay." John said, matter-of-factly "_Now_ I believe that you don't want to hurt us…But Sebastian Moran is still murdered at least ten innocent people and he's right in front of me, _unlike Moriarty._ I _will _kill him for what he's done and accept whatever consequences for what _I've_done—unless you tell me the truth."

John stared at Anthea and Anthea stared at John.

(And everyone else stared at them staring at eachother.)

It was silent for a moment until Moran spoke up, "Well, either you tell him or I will. I don't get paid for this job so you don't get to bargain with my life."

Anthea sighed.

"…_Fine."_ She said, then turning back to John, "I'll tell you and Mr. Lestrade what you want to know…but my employer can_ not_ know about this."

* * *

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	22. High

**Thank you, Hurricane Sandy, for sending me home so I can do my favorite thing ever...write fanfiction!**

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**I hope you all like this chapter!**

* * *

_When Sherlock Holmes took his swan dive off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital, he disturbed two pigeons perched on the stone below his feet…_

* * *

Logically, larger crowd=lower chance of being noticed…

…but as Molly and Jim made their way through the busy airport, Molly's _very_ _justified _paranoia registered every passing person as possible employees of Mycroft (come to capture Jim like a swarm of ants would capture a meal for their queen) or, if not, someone who would simply recognize Jim as either Jim Moriarty, the criminal that was supposed to be dead, or Richard Brook, the actor that was supposed to be dead, and contact either the police or the media.

And then there were the security cameras.

Molly watched them watching the masses (her and Jim?) dash towards their destinations, wait patiently (or, more often, _im_patiently) on benches or otherwise occupy themselves at the small shops and restaurants inside the airport—but only out of the corner of her eyes because she did not want to directly face them and so give them her face.

Of course, looking over one's shoulder every few minutes and jumping at any sudden sound or movement by a stranger actually drew _more_ attention to Molly as she rushed, clutching her packed-lightly bag to her shoulder tightly, towards the security checkpoint.

Jim chuckled to himself at this conspicuous display, trailing Molly at a more leisurely pace and carrying the matching bag he'd borrowed from her.

He watched the other people too.

So many pigeons, so many feathers he could ruffle…if he _felt_ like it.

And today he didn't really feel like it.

He already had his own pet bird to play with; she'd grown bored of the safe world within her cage (the cage most people lived in) and was just testing her wings.

In her plain clothes and with her average appearance, Molly was all-but identical to any other passerby in the crowd.

The only thing noticeable about her was that she was_ noticing everything. _

(And without Sherlock's natural relevance-filter and his practiced cool, it was more a handicap than a help.)

Molly reached the security checkpoint a few minutes before him, but for all her hurry Jim strolled up to stand behind her in the long line.

He'd stepped as quietly as possible to see if when he tapped her on the shoulder she'd jump up and spin around.

She did.

He laughed.

"Surprised to see me, my dear?"

"Oh!—Jim. It's just you."

" '_Just'_ me? I'm _insulted._ And who else would it be?"

(Moran, Anthea, another one (or _one hundred)_ of Mycroft's employees, John, Lestrade or any combination of those people.)

"No one, I'm sorry…I knew it was you, you were right behind me. It's just…a reflex, you know?"

"Or a conditioned response…"

"Well…yeah. That too, I suppose."

He smiled and she smiled.

So many couples lose the 'passion' that initially welded them together over time, they have to fight to 'keep the spark alive'.

Not Jim and Molly.

They had _fear._

The causing and the feeling; _the call and response. _

But fear necessarily isn't a_ bad_ thing.

The scared _survive._

And sometimes fear is just the anticipation and excitement of riding a rollercoaster. Nobody got hurt (usually).

Molly never used to like rollercoasters but adrenaline was a taste she was slowly acquiring. Now, she wasn't a 'junkie' like Jim or Sherlock… but when around people like them she became a 'recreational user'.

It wasn't a _lifestyle_—yet.

…_and yet_ here she was about to fly away on a plane, leaving her family, friends, job—her _life_—behind.

Okay.

Maybe she _had_ become an addict.

"We don't have tickets." Molly noted in a hushed voice so that the others in line (who were minding their own business, had their own problems to worry about, and couldn't care less what two out of the probably thousands of other people in the airport were doing at the moment—unless, of course, they were terrorists) would not hear, "How are we going to get through?"

"Didn't I say not to worry about it?" Jim reminded, with a patronizing sigh, "I_ told_ you, I know a guy."

"…you never explain things." Molly complained, "You still haven't even told me where we're going or what we'll be doing."

"Life's no fun without surprises." Jim reasoned, "Lose the mystery, lose the magic."

Molly rolled her eyes and switched the hand that held her suitcase, then taking a step forward as the line moved.

"I'll tell you once we're on the plane," Jim added, "…so if you get _second thoughts,_ there will be nowhere for your cold feet to run."

"I said I'd go with you and I won't go back on that." Molly countered, "Why would I? You're helping Sherlock and whatever he's doing, he's doing for a good reason so I want to help him too. Help _you_ help him."

"You're just thrilled that I'm working with him now—instead of trying to kill him." Jim interpreted.

"Only a little." Molly understated, with a smile.

"Then you'll be disappointed when Sherlock ends up trying to kill me." Jim added, matter-of-factly.

Molly's smile faded.

"What?!" she responded in shock still hushed because _someone could be listening._

"Oh, look." Jim evaded, pointing ahead, "Queue's moving."

He walked forward, forcing Molly to walk forward as the people in front of her walked forward.

In more spread-out and less organized situations, this sort of crowd-pushing technique could be used to cause a stampede that picked up speed until people got trampled (Jim wondered what would happen if he yelled out he had a bomb), but in a single-file line was a sure and relatively safe way of moving it along—even if there was nowhere to go or no reason to move.

In this single-file situation, however, there _was_ somewhere to go and a reason to move.

The metal conveyor-belt and body-scanner was now open, a security guard standing beside it and gesturing for Molly to set her suitcase down and walk through.

She did, first glancing back at Jim who gestured his yield (although she was really looking for an explanation of his earlier statement not for a "ladies first") and then went after her.

On what she thought was the 'safe' side of the metal-detecting gateway, Molly jerked and froze at the jarring honk of the alarm.

Glancing back again, she saw Jim shrugging innocently while talking to the security guard and in her peripheral vision, she saw a security camera staring in their direction from one corner and another security guard striding in their direction from another corner.

_No!_

Not now!

Not _again!_

Molly should have known—_no,_ she _did_ know—that Mycroft's employees wouldn't let her or Jim out of their sight (and their grasp) for very long and it made sense that they had increased surveillance capabilities in travel centers like airports and train stations to prevent their targets from leaving the city and the country.

And so the employees had finally (re-) found Jim and Molly (who they had only just lost earlier that morning).

It was almost like they were _teasing_ them, allowing them to _almost_ escape and then catching them just as they thought they were free.

It was what _Jim_ would do.

(And Molly would never have even thought of that before she'd met him.)

"You two need to come with me." the second security guard ordered, sternly.

"Why?!" Molly exclaimed, defensively, "We've done nothing wrong!"

She examined this new guard (half expecting him to be Moran in disguise), wondering whether he was an actual employee of Mycroft or 'just following orders from the top'.

"There was an illegal gun in that bag." The guard disagreed, pointing at the suitcases that had since gone through the scanner.

Automatically, Molly once again glanced back accusingly at Jim and Jim once again shrugged innocently.

"This must be a mistake!" Molly attempted, turning back to the security guard, "He'd never be stupid enough to bring weapon to an airport."

"Actually, it was in _your_ bag, ma'am." The security guard agreed.

Jim received another automatic and accusing glare from Molly.

This _was_ something Jim would do, setting her up to get caught by airport security just for the fun of it.

Maybe this wasn't Mycroft's employees, after all.

Molly opened her mouth to protest in self-defense but the second guard spoke again.

"Please, follow me." he instructed, then turning and starting back the way he'd come, "This way."

Having no choice (other than to 'make a run for it' (which would also make a scene and _still_ result in her (and probably Jim, too) being arrested)), Molly stepped out of line and after the security guard, down the spacious terminal that branched off to each gate's waiting area.

_Now_ people were staring.

Jim, meandering somewhat behind Molly and the guard, stared maniacally back at those watching until they looked away awkwardly.

When they started whispering amongst themselves, the first security guard assured them that the nice couple had just been randomly selected for additional screening.

(Nothing to worry about, nothing to see here.)

The guard bypassed the additional screening line, taking Molly and Jim down a hall that passed the bathrooms, a janitor's closet, and eventually (after making a few more turns) the security office (complete with a room that looked an awful lot like an interrogation room).

They passed that, too.

Instead, they took a freight-elevator down to ground level where small trucks toted containers of luggage across the concrete floor of the huge garage-like structure and outside to the concrete runways where the idling planes sat.

"…um...where are we going?" Molly finally spoke up in a voice careful not to sound angry, frightened or demanding to the back of the security guard moving at quicker pace than her.

For all she knew, his orders were to take her and Jim somewhere 'more private' and _shoot _them (although she couldn't see a gun on him).

At this moment Jim released the laughter he'd been stealthily concealing by biting his tongue and walking behind Molly.

(Still, he did it with _style_ and so it was scoff rather than a guffaw.)

Molly and the security guard both stopped and turned around to face him.

Molly said nothing.

She didn't want to interfere in case Jim's laughing was part of some elaborate plan to get them away from the guard (she remembered his extreme antics at the island resort/prison).

The security guard said something.

"What is your destination for today, Mr. Moriarty?" he asked.

"Well, I wanna take my girlfriend here on holiday somewhere pretty and exotic, tropical but not _too_ humid…"Jim mused, tapping his chin as if he was pondering, "…any recommendations?"

"Argentina?" the guard suggested (sounding suspiciously scripted).

"_Perfect."_ Jim accepted.

And then to make things _even more_ perfect, one of the luggage trucks pulled up beside them so that the driver could deposit their bags for the security guard to carry.

After gaping in speechless shock for a few seconds, Molly realized that she really shouldn't have been surprised.

"You planned all of this, didn't you?" she 'deduced'.

"What can I say? I've got a gift." Jim troped, unapologetic.

"…you could've warned me…" Molly sighed, slightly annoyed but still forgiving, "I really thought we'd been caught this time."

"I need entertainment much more than you need peace of mind." Jim dismissed, "Peace of mind's _overrated,_ anyway. A mind at war…now _that's_ interesting. "

He wasn't just talking about her short panic —and Molly knew it.

"You scare me to death sometimes, Jim." She made a wistful and all-but unnoticeable 'joke'.

She wasn't just talking about her short panic, either.

Jim chuckled. He was one of the few that recognized and appreciated her uncomfortably sincere sense of humor.

"And yet you're still here." he returned.

(Still_ alive_…and still _with him.)_

(For _now_…or _forever?) _

"Yes," Molly affirmed, with a light and self-deprecating laugh, "Sometimes I'm still surprised about that. Surprised I've made it this long."

"Me too." Jim agreed, with a snort, then adding… "And I _like_ surprises."

"I do remember you mentioning that." Molly teased.

"And speaking of 'surprises'…" Jim continued, "Did you give your new job any notice that you're, you know, fleeing the country with a criminal…or are they going to get that surprise when you don't show up?"

"My paid leave transferred over from Bart's," Molly said, "I told them I was going on holiday."

That was a lie.

She'd walked out of work and never looked back.

It was an incredibly irresponsible and drastic (not to mention more than a little bit _insane)_ thing to do but Molly wasn't going to just wait around for Jim anymore and she wasn't going to let him do whatever he wanted to anymore, either.

It seemed like a childish and romantic fantasy to run off with a man like this, and Molly did giggle about it to herself sometimes (the way she sometimes felt surprised she 'made it this long'), but it was for a good cause.

And it was alright to do 'bad' things for good reasons…_right?_

(Or was Molly just another silly and lovesick girl who thought she could change the 'bad boy', another well-meaning but naïve woman who thought she could 'fix' the broken man?)

"How convenient." Jim responded, and Molly couldn't tell if he could tell she was lying (she'd been practicing, she'd been getting better) "And your sister? Your darling nephew? The cat you abandoned once you finally got a boyfriend that they so kindly took in? What about them, won't they notice you've gone missing?"

"I told them I was going to visit my ex in South America." Molly stated, "…and I didn't _'abandon'_ Toby. I put him somewhere _safe_ where I know he'll be loved and well cared for. When we get back to London, I'm getting my cat back."

That was true.

_(Unless…) _

"…and what if we _don't_ get back to London?" Jim ventured.

"I'm sure we will." Molly dismissed, cheerily (even though she wasn't so sure).

While they spoke, the security guard conversed on his walky-talky until he was given the 'all clear'.

"There's a flight to Buenos Aires awaiting permission to take off." He informed, "I'll get you two on it."

"Thank you." Molly thanked him (for breaking the law), then looking back to Jim, "So this is what you do? Every time you want to travel?"

"Oh, it's not just me—although I _can_ take credit for the idea." Jim specified, "Poor security guard's got to make a living and rich wanted criminals've got to get out of the country."

The security guard led them through the busy loading area to one of the larger planes on the uncrowded expanse of runways.

The windows of the airport waiting areas overlooked them from above, the detachable tunnel-like bridge still connected to the airplane. They entered through the emergency-exit, climbed up the rarely-used stairs and stood behind the nondescript double doors by the two trashcans and another janitor's closet.

There the guard handed Molly and Jim their suitcase.

When the three pushed through the doors they were hurrying as if they had been running the entire way there. Like this they rushed through the waiting room and the gate, into the plane.

"They were held up by additional screening." The security guard explained to the flight attendant who had already greeted every passenger with a ticket almost thirty minutes ago and was now smiling (rehearsedly) at these new arrivals, "Missed their original fight so they were transferred to this one."

"Alright." The flight attendant accepted, giving the security guard a knowing nod and then turning to Molly and Jim, "Lucky you made it here on time. We're just about to take off. Let's see if we can find you some seats."

"Thank you." Molly thanked her (for looking the other way), then following her down the aisle (not as skinny as lower class seating towards the back of the plane, though) until they located an empty row.

The flight attendant helped Molly put her bag in the overhead container and then returned to the front of the cabin where Jim and the guard were still talking. She spoke briefly to them before picking up Jim's bag and bringing it back to store next to Molly's.

Molly stood waiting awkwardly by the empty row until the attendant had continued down the aisle, the guard had exited the airplane and Jim stood in front of her.

"Do you want the window seat?" she offered

"Why would I?" Jim scoffed, as if the suggestion was outlandish.

He flopped into the aisle seat, stretching out his legs so that Molly had to step over them as she managed to squeeze past him.

Once in her seat, Molly opened the lidded oval window on the wall (seeing only boring concrete outside) and buckled her seatbelt.

Jim didn't laugh at her for buckling her seatbelt and so she didn't tell him that he should really buckle his.

…._Still,_ Molly wondered (worried) what trouble a bored Jim would cause while trapped in the small space of on an over ten hour flight with a captive audience.

So far he was just pressing the buttons of the armrest that changed the channels on the screen attached to the seat in-front of him, rolling his eyes as the flight attendant at the front of the cabin went over the safety instructions in English and then Spanish.

(At least he wasn't explaining how the safety features wouldn't work in the event of a plane crash which was incredibly unlikely _unlike_ car crashes which were much more common and killed some sizeable statistic of people every year as Molly imagined Sherlock would do.)

Molly leaned against the wall, looking away from Jim and out the window at the solid ocean beige and gray outside, waiting for the sky.

* * *

Although it had already been over two years since the explosion that killed thirteen people and destroyed two floors, the condemned apartment building was still 'under construction' and fenced off.

The windows that had broken were boarded up, their broken glass littering the grassless and muddy law as the second 'line of defense', and the bricks of the outside wall were still burned and since decorated with graffiti.

All in all, the government had done a terrible job of reconstructing the building they had purchased after that fake criminal working for that fake detective had it blown up…

…but they'd done a wonderful job of converting it into a secret prison.

There was even some construction equipment outside, a bulldozer and a crane with a wrecking-ball, that 'construction workers' drove around all day and night but did no _construction_ work with (they did, however, do guard work by chasing away any intruders from the site with their heavy machinery).

They nodded at Sherlock, who disregarded them in favor of watching his shoes squish through the dirt below as he walked, from their large vehicles then picking up and speaking into the attached radios.

There were no more jeans, no more dyed hair, and the coat was back.

Sherlock was back.

With an egregiously low-tech (for a government facility) metal key, he opened a side door (paint peeling) to the apartment building…

…and walked into a state-of-the-art body-scanner that verified his identity and checked him for weapons—or any items that he'd not been given permission to bring into this building (or have at all).

Despite the building's damaged exterior, its interior was completely renovated.

The lower floors were office space, as evident by the black-suited woman staring into a computer screen while typing and talking on the phone at the front security desk. She too nodded Sherlock on and he again ignored the nod, continuing forward in a fast pace of a sole purpose.

He passed other apartments that were now offices full of computers, desks and people in black suits (and one empty office with only one desk) before hurrying up the stairs (two at a time, which was easy for him because of his long legs) to the upper levels.

Those held the prison cells.

Apartments with only basic furnishings, windows filled in with cement and a guard inside with a prisoner at all times, these cells were actually much nicer than the dark and empty ones of the old secret prison. They included their own bathrooms (albeit doorless with clear shower curtains) and a relatively comfortable bed (but there was no television, radio, internet access, entertainment or outside communication of any kind).

Names and mugshots of the prisoners were posted on the door of their apartment-cells, as well as the sign-in sheet for who was guarding them during the current shift. (This information was also all of course stored on computer and in paper records just in case.)

Sherlock didn't see many prisoners that he recognized (most of the terrorists he'd captured the day before had been turned over to other authorities) as he strode through the hall of locked doors…

(Most of them were either low-ranking enforcers for various criminal organizations (to be turned into informants and 'released'—with tracking and recording devices implanted into their skin) or the high-ranking leaders of these various criminal organizations (to be held for ransom—this prison had to be funded somehow.))

…but he did see a picture of the Australian hitman, a picture of the corrupt inside man from Scotland Yard and a picture of 'terrorist businessman' James Moriarty, on three respective doors.

There was also an empty apartment-cell with a mugshot of Sebastian Moran on its open door, the source of Sherlock's ire.

After passing that door, Sherlock finally found Mycroft who was not where he thought he'd be (working in his downstairs office or gloating to James down the hall) but coming quickly from door to another set of stairs that led to the floor above that Sherlock had been told contained no offices or cells.

"Touring my new 'council housing', Sherlock?" Mycroft greeted, evenly, so his brother wouldn't think to ask what he had been up to upstairs, "What do you think? Too humane?"

He pretended not to notice Sherlock's conspicuous change in appearance.

"Apparently there's a higher floor you didn't mention." Sherlock responded, "What were you doing up there?"

"What were_ you_ doing for the past twelve hours?" Mycroft returned, "You were supposed to meet with me as soon as you returned from Syria."

"I was giving you time to keep your end of bargain." Sherlock stated, "You told me you would have Sebastian Moran in custody if I took a convenient trip out of the city to arrest James Moriarty—who is now _completely _worthless to you because you can't use him to distract me anymore."

"I also told you that I had Moran under control." Mycroft reminded, "He's so busy with the assignment I gave him that he wouldn't have the time to attack John even if he wanted too—which, I assure you, he does not."

"You have Moran under control?" Sherlock scoffed, "Then where is he? And, as a matter of fact…where is _John?" _

Mycroft paused before answering Sherlock's questions because he actually did not know the answers.

Anthea was in charge of monitoring Moran and she was also in charge of showing John and Lestrade seeing Jim's dead body—or, because Jim was still alive, a dead body _surgically-altered_ to look like Jim…which Anthea was in charge of having made, as well.

(Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man with more important things to do (…and he just didn't like dealing with people for extended periods of time.))

The pause was answer enough to Sherlock.

"You don't know, _do you,_ Mycroft?" he interpreted, mocking yet fatigued, "You don't have_ anything_ under control. You can't even stop John and Lestrade from investigating what we've been doing this past month and the trail leads straight to Moran—and me."

"How many times do I have to tell you that Moran—" Mycroft attempted but was interrupted.

"…does not want to kill John? _I know._ But that does not mean John doesn't want to kill Moran, who he knows killed people in Afghanistan and now thinks is a terrorist—thanks to the fictitious 'news' article _you_ planted in the papers."

"And since when did _you_ read newspapers, Sherlock?"

"Does it matter if I do? _John _does."

"And you think John would take the law into his own hands?"

"If the law isn't doing its job, then _yes._ Who do you think shot that cab driver two years ago?"

"Even so, this situation is different. John killed him because he was going to kill you. Moran is working for me now and I certainly haven't ordered him to kill anybody—"

"But you didn't release that information to press, John has no way of knowing and I don't know what stories you've used to stall him and Lestrade from figuring everything out."

"Don't forget that it was _your_ idea not to tell them you're alive in the first place."

"This wasn't supposed to take so long. You've been stalling me, Mycroft—for whatever reason, I don't care why— I just won't work with you anymore and I'll deal with Moran myself."

"No, Sherlock, you—"

"Oh and how will you stop me? Lock me in here with your 'tenants'?"

Mycroft paused again, this time to sigh, and again Sherlock took that pause as an answer to his question.

"No?" Sherlock continued, "Then don't bother me again. I don't need your help and I don't want it."

"I think you do." Mycroft countered, "How will you get anything done without my resources? Who's going to assist you? You don't have any money—not like_ I_ do—and you don't even have the few friends you used to."

"And it's better that way, isn't it, Mycroft?" Sherlock accepted, "Nobody to slow me down, nobody who can be used against me…_nobody you can have killed to keep me 'safe'."_

"We've gone over this countless times, you know I never—"

"I know that whenever I get close to anyone you do your best to step in between."

This was true.

Mycroft had tried to bribe John into spying on Sherlock, taken Sherlock off the Irene Alder case when she started flirting with him and jailed Jim for playing a friendly game (of mass murder) with Sherlock.

(The only person Mycroft hadn't bothered with was Molly, figuring that Sherlock could keep from getting close to her all by himself.)

"To protect you!" Mycroft exclaimed, throwing his hands up and then instantly calming down (not only for appearance's sake but because he didn't want his employees and prisoners on this floor overhearing his conversation with Sherlock).

"I don't need protection from you." Sherlock snorted.

"Yes you do." Mycroft disagreed, coolly, "You'd be dead, more than once, if it wasn't for me…and for the others that've helped you."

"So you admit there are others."

"_Yes,_ and I make sure they can be trusted. You're a magnet, Sherlock. You're brilliant but you attract danger—seek it out. And so I protect you."

"Why?"

Sherlock asked the question as if he genuinely did not know the answer and this time Mycroft's pause to sigh _was_ the answer.

"You told me that 'caring is not an advantage'." Sherlock recounted, "It's time you took that advice—I have."

Instead of continuing to argue, Mycroft just said "…fine. If you don't want my help, I won't give it; if you want me to leave you alone, I will."

Sherlock blinked in surprise (suspicion) at this seemingly too easy victory but then Mycroft continued.

"But this separation goes both ways." He added, "Since we're no longer working together then I can no longer just forgive you for undermining my plans. Sebastian Moran is my employee and if you attempt to interfere with his missions or harm him in anyway, I will stop you."

"You're welcome to try." Sherlock invited, with a slight smirk, "….Now, if those're all the threats you have for me and I'm truly free from your _supervision_ then I'm going to go."

"Actually, there_ is_ one more thing." Mycroft said.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, impatiently.

"Your right pocket." Mycroft stated, pointing at Sherlock's longcoat pocket, "Empty it."

"I don't remember you having the law changed to make possession of cigarettes illegal." Sherlock grumbled as he pulled the pack from his pocket.

Mycroft stretched out his hand.

"My building, my rules." He shrugged, "It's not just a metal detector downstairs. It registers everything on the person; clothing, weapons, possessions. Of course that technology hasn't been released yet—or made legal—so feel free to complain about my invasion of your privacy to a higher authority…if you can_ find_ one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smacked the cigarette pack into Mycroft's open hand. Mycroft glanced down at it disinterested disgust before depositing it into his own pocket.

"Good day and goodbye to you, Mycroft." Sherlock said in sarcastic politeness, already spinning on his heal and then striding "Do fight the urge to have me followed."

Mycroft watched Sherlock walk away through the doors to the staircase he'd come from and even after his brother was gone, Mycroft still stood in the hall waiting for confirmation that Sherlock Holmes had left the building.

Once he had and was just about to return upstairs, he heard the door to one of the apartment-cells open.

Mycroft turned to see an employee in a black suit and James in an orange prison-jumpsuit standing in the doorway.

"Excuse me, sir, the prisoner says he has some information for you." The employee informed.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked, skeptically.

"Let me go and I'll tell you." James attempted.

"Close the door." Mycroft ordered, with a dismissive wave as he turned his back to them and started away.

The black-suited employee began closing the door but James called after him, "It's about your brother Sherlock."

Mycroft stopped, then turning slowly around.

He knew he couldn't trust what James would say and that he probably wouldn't like what was said (regardless of its truthfulness) but still, hearing the name Sherlock, he had to listen.

"Oh?" he responded, ambiguously, feigning apathy.

"He knows my brother is alive." James stated, "But that's all I'm going tell you…unless you let me out."

* * *

After the rush of packing her things(and Jim's since he wouldn't have bothered otherwise and just bought new), hurrying to the airport hoping that they were not being followed, and then finally making it onto a plane (by illegally bypassing security) after being tricked into believing that they'd been captured, Molly was tired.

After all, she'd just worked the nightshift and so had been up since five the evening before.

Her internal clock was skewed far beyond just the jetlag she would surely suffer in Argentina.

Molly didn't know how long Jim had been awake, just that he didn't seem to have a 'sleep schedule' and instead took catnaps whenever he felt like it, apparently able to fall asleep any time and any place.

_(Except in complete darkness and complete silence.) _

Still, Molly was too nervous to dose off. She wanted to be able to monitor Jim's 'flight etiquette'.

Plane ascending, Molly tensed uncomfortably as her ears popped painfully.

"Scared?" Jim guessed, tauntingly.

"No." Molly shook her head, swallowing, "It's the pressure change."

"Chew gum." Jim suggested, offering her a piece from the pack in his pocket.

"No thanks." She shook her head again, in refusal.

Jim shrugged, popping the piece into his mouth instead and then chomping on it loudly.

"You know, I read somewhere that people in the Andes Mountains chew leaves to relieve altitude sickness." Molly added, to get Jim to respond so he wouldn't chew the gum so audibly.

"Coca leaves." Jim identified, eagerly, then mimicking her speech pattern, "I read somewhere that people used them to make cocaine. But I don't think the 'altitude sickness' that makes bothers anybody."

"I wouldn't know." Molly replied, then mimicking Jim's classic innocent shrug.

"_I know who would."_ Jim sang in a devious whisper.

Molly would never have suspected Sherlock of using drugs but from the way Jim spoke she knew exactly who he meant.

Jim had told her once that Sherlock had killed people and now that Sherlock was willing to work with Jim of all people (doing whatever they hadn't given her close to all the details of—just that it was illegal (did that necessarily mean immoral, though?)) Molly realized that she knew almost _nothing _about him.

Not his past and not his _mind. _

It was so easy to regard Sherlock as the hero in a bitter world that needed (worshipped) heroes and wanted so desperately for them to be real—_especially_ when Jim played the perfect villain (and as much as people love heroes, they love the villains that make them possible).

Because Sherlock was a genius he was supposed to _know better_ than everyone else, act better, _be _better.

He was_ supposed_ to be a hero, it was supposed to be _easy_ for him.

(Or was _Jim _just the genius who knew better than everyone else—knew something they didn't know—and so could (and _did) _do whatever he wanted?)

But Sherlock had rejected the 'hero' label for a reason (and it sure wasn't humility) and he must have foreseen the way it would raise him up just to throw him crashing down.

And that was Jim's fault, of course.

Molly understood why Sherlock would want to kill Jim for that (and why Jim would deserve to die for it, too) but for Sherlock to _actually kill_ Jim…

For once, Molly hoped that Jim had lied to her.

That he was just playing with her mind because he was bored or to further her 'loyalty' to him over Sherlock because he was possessive.

And yet she still had that curdling fear in the pit of her stomach that Jim was telling the truth.

Oh, what a fear that was.

To be afraid of Jim Moriarty telling the truth.

To be afraid of _Sherlock Holmes._

Sure, Molly hadn't been able to look Sherlock in the eyes since she knew he knew she was sleeping with Jim (and even before then, too); she'd been ashamed of herself but she'd never really been _afraid_ of him.

She wondered if Jim was scared, too.

"Jim, about what you said earlier—" Molly began.

She was interrupted by the flight attendant returning, this time pushing a cart down the aisle and stopping at their back row.

"Thank you for choosing our airline." She recited in accented English, "You may choose between the two hot and two cold meal items the menus provided. Lunch will be served at noon so would you like to purchase any snack or drink to tide you over?"

Molly pulled the menu out of the pouch in the seat in front of her and glanced it over.

Meanwhile, Jim ordered drinks and bags of 'gourmet' crisps for himself and Molly, as well as some headphones.

The flight attendant retrieved the refreshments from the refrigerated cart and reached over to place them down on the trays she'd pulled down from the back of the seats before Jim and Molly's.

Jim then paid the flight attendant with an amount of money that was far too much for what the overpriced items he was buying—even on an airplane.

"Thank you, sir, and please enjoy your flight." She smiled, widely and _sincerely_ as she held the bills in her hands, then pushing the cart further down the aisle.

…Before Molly had even decided what she wanted to eat later.

She replaced the menu and looked down at the tray in front of her. The bag of crisps and a beverage in a plastic cup that smelled alcoholic.

It was eleven in the morning.

Molly wanted _breakfast._

Jim snorted as he watched Molly's unenthusiastic expression.

"We could've stopped at one of the cafes in the airport," He reminded her, "but you insisted we didn't have time."

"I didn't know we were going to…" Molly defended, then trailing off because she didn't want admit outloud the illegal activities of that morning, "…get sent to the other security line."

Jim had told her nothing except that they were flying to a foreign country and that he'd take care of tickets and everything.

And so, Molly had even packed her passport.

(Jim had packed several to choose from.)

"Well, selection for that's at random so there's no way I could've know either." Jim reasoned, smugly, "It's not_ my_ fault."

Molly glared at Jim, who smirked and then plugged the earphones into the armrest and his ears so he could watch the screen before him (its channels (half of them in Spanish) only interesting for as long as it took him to finish both his and Molly's snacks).

Sighing, Molly looked away and out her window, sinking into her cushioned seat.

But when the lunches were delivered at noon, Molly's was a breakfast.

* * *

After working out an agreement with James, Mycroft took out his phone to call Anthea while he walked back upstairs.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes." her voice answered, the practiced and standard response.

"Please tell me that Moran has captured Jim Moriarty."

"…I'm sorry, sir, but Jim escaped—to another country, we believe."

Mycroft shook his head, groaning in frustration at this news.

_Why did Jim always get away?!_

"Then find him."

"Already being done, sir."

"Since Jim is, _unfortunately,_ still alive and well, do you have a corpse to appease Doctor Watson and Mr. Lestrade?"

"I'm taking them to see it right now. I had the surgeon alter a body to look like Jim and sent DNA samples for him to make it more convincing."

"Good…and I hope you understand that this has gone on for far too long. If your people, including Moran, cannot manage to capture Jim then I'll hire someone who can. You have three days."

"I understand, sir. That won't be a problem. I'll call you when we have him."

Mycroft hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket just as he reached the door in the dark hallway that he had been when his employees called him to tell him that Sherlock had arrived.

On this door there was no picture (just as in the apartment the mirror had been removed—as had all objects that could be used to homicide…or suicide) and no name.

The only cell on the floor and with no guard inside, Fred was still in solitary confinement.

…until Mycroft entered the room.

Fred was sitting in the dark on the floor even though the electricity functioned perfecting in the apartment building and there was furniture in the apartment.

"Are you going to kill me now?"

He didn't turn around to face Mycroft or stand up.

"No—"

"You promised. I tell you what I did, and you set me free. That was the deal."

"But you aren't responsible for what happened that night. You were drugged. I have the proof right here."

He held up a folder of bloodtests a black-suited employee had delivered to him from Anthea early that morning even though he knew Fred wasn't looking.

"I don't care!"

"Someone drugged you and forced you to murder your friends. You know who he is—you just don't want to remember. It's painful, I understand, but that person needs to be punished and you—"

"_I_ need to be punished!"

Finally, Fred turned and stood, glaring at Mycroft.

"I've tried to make you more comfortable here than you were in your old 'home'," Mycroft stated, calmly, "but I think we can both see that you are being punished. Just _living_ is punishment enough for you, is it not?"

Fred said nothing to this but Mycroft saw his silhouette descend back down to the wood floor, this time lying flat as if he was dead.

Really, he was just sleeping.

Helpless to help Fred, Mycroft exited the room.

Before gentrification, this apartment building had been in a 'bad' (poor) neighborhood, the site of many crimes that no one cared about…until the gruesome murders of a rich teenager and his addict friends. That brought attention to the area and prompted renovation of the building to retain tenants and gain replacements for the ones that left.

And after the explosion, the only other mass killing to occur in the building, all the (surviving) tenants had to move out and other residents of the appreciating neighborhood followed that example. Only those who couldn't afford to move stayed and so the area fell back into its former poverty.

Fred had been blindfolded when brought to the apartment building, to a different room than the one he used to live in—there was no way he could possibly know where he was.

But could he _feel_ it?

Jim had chosen this building to blow up for a reason, it was another _clue._

Mycroft realized that now…. did _Sherlock?_

* * *

In the more expensive area of the airplane the more comfortable seats sat in rows of two, most but not all of them occupied. Occupying the people sitting in them were the movies, music, magazines and meals provided.

Occupying Jim were these people.

Molly was being boring (absorbed in some soap opera she'd borrowed his headphones to watch on the screen attached to the seat in front of her) and so Jim needed different 'live entertainment'.

He got up to 'stretch his legs' or 'go to the bathroom' (whichever excuse worked) and strolled around the aisles of the plane, trying to find something (or _someone)_ interesting to do.

He gave unsolicited and intentionally bad relationship advice to an arguing lesbian couple ("Just bring your girlfriend to the ceremony with you. In fact, make out with her in church in front of everyone. Embarrass your Catholic family for not accepting her—for not accepting _you._ Punish them."), instructed a group of teenagers taking a school-sponsored summer trip on how and where to party crazily (illegally) without getting caught while their chaperone was away, and got three rowdy children to quiet down by telling them a story...about a plane crash ("and then everybody died").

Jim was finally forced to sit down by a flight attendant because of turbulence or the aisles needing to be cleared (whichever excuse worked) and Molly pulled out the headphones to hear him as she turned to look at him.

"You sure took a long time in the toilet…" She commented.

"Well I never!" Jim troped in mock self-consciousness and self-righteousness, "Mind your manners, Molly."

"Twenty minutes, Jim." Molly replied, flatly, "I know you weren't in there."

"Course I was." Jim insisted, "…I just wasn't _alone."_

Molly considered the odds of that statement being true for a moment before deciding (hoping) it wasn't and changing the subject.

"When we get to Argentina, what are we going to do?" she asked.

"See an old friend." Jim smiled, cryptic and ambiguous.

'_Friend'._

Friend was a funny word with Jim.

Was Jim being sarcastic or sincere ? (…or something in between?)

Molly was never sure when he really meant it or what it really meant to him.

"Who?" she pressed.

"What did I tell you about surprises earlier?" Jim refused, "Besides, telling you his name wouldn't tell you anything else, would it?"

(Of course, a _name _wasn't what Molly was asking for. She was asking_ who_ this 'friend' was to Jim.)

"No, it wouldn't if I didn't know the person…" Molly reasoned, "…but_ you_ just told me the person is male. I know that, at least."

"Well, aren't you the clever one." Jim chuckled, with a roll of the eyes that stopped halfway to gaze at her.

"I work with what I'm given." Molly qualified, taking the sarcastic compliment sincerely, "Even when it's not very much."

"_My_ clever one." Jim claimed.

(And it did feel_ good_ to be someone's, to be wanted enough to be owned—as long as one wasn't part of a collection (or treated like furniture.))

But if Molly belonged to Jim, didn't_ Jim_ belong to _Molly?_

Wasn't that the way things normally worked?

(Not that any of this was _'normal'.)_

It was why she felt so responsible for the harm he caused.

Jim was her_ life_ now.

But her life was still _hers._

"Your 'clever one'?" Molly parroted, tentatively and then more bravely, "Yours."

Jim smirked, just a flash before a larger and laughing smile.

On his lips and in his eyes was a_ look_ she hadn't seen for months now. Jim was looking at her the way he used to look at her when she acted like she wasn't afraid of him…or when she was too afraid of him to even act.

_Disappointed._

_Bored._

But then the look was gone.

And he was playing with her hair now, still slightly wet from a rushed shower, twirling it around his fingers and then tucking it behind her ear so he could whisper.

"Remember what we said earlier about taking too long in the restroom, and not being alone…?"

* * *

Sherlock and Irene were taken to the same basement loading structure after being pulled out of the same security line by the same security guard.

"You're the second couple to come through today." He commented.

"We know." Irene stated, plainly.

"We're not a couple…" Sherlock muttered (to which Irene rolled her eyes).

"Where do you two want to go?" the guard asked.

"Two different places." Irene answered, "Colombia and Slovakia."

"Okay." The security guard agreed, "You may have to wait a few hours."

"That's fine." Irene accepted.

The guard then pulled out his walky-talky to once again arrange transportation for two illegal travelers.

Sherlock remained silent, brooding in his long coat and re-darkened hair (the armor she much preferred to his 'camouflage'), staring off into space (or, at least the airport workers hard at work and the trucks of luggage driving in all directions).

"Everything alright, Lord Byron?" Irene inquired, trying to hide the smile on her mouth and in her voice.

Sherlock said nothing, now rolling _his_ eyes (to which Irene folded her arms).

"You had a fight with your brother, didn't you?" Irene guessed. After another silence from Sherlock, she added, "…I'm only asking because I need to know whether he will be a problem for us."

"He won't be." Sherlock spoke finally, "We've just…agreed to work separately from now on. He's promised to leave me alone."

"Oh, and you think you can trust that?" Irene scoffed.

"I can_ verify_ it." Sherlock declared, triumphantly.

"How?"

"I don't smoke anymore."

Irene raised an eyebrow but before Sherlock could explain about the recording-device he planted into pack of cigarettes confiscated by Mycroft, the security guard completed his walky-talky conversation.

"Follow me." the guard said.

And so Sherlock did, coat sailing like a cape behind him (and flapping in the face of Irene) as he walked with the reborn _high_ of solving a case or winning a game in his step that had died when he'd fallen from the roof of a building.

Irene couldn't help but again roll her eyes, again fold her arms and then _smile approvingly_ at this as she started after.

* * *

The flight attendant laughed as she stepped back to allow Molly and Jim to exit embarrassed and annoyed (respectively) from the too-small-to-have-sex-in (comfortably) airplane bathroom, unsuccessful in their endeavors.

"They build it like that on purpose." She informed them, still laughing, "Please return to your seats and enjoy the rest of your flight. Dinner will be served at six."

"So much for modern comforts." Jim muttered, rolling his eyes as he started back to the row.

Molly hurried after him, blushing too red to even speak, and more than thankful there hadn't been more serious consequences (for any of the crimes or attempted crimes she and Jim had committed that day).

Back in their seats, Molly lifted the armrest between them out of the way so that she could lean against Jim and he could put his arm around her without obstruction (but there was_ always_ obstruction!).

They ate dinner off of their trays like this, sharing one earbud of the headphones each and watching a melodramatic movie (Jim switching the language dubbing back and forth from English to Spanish, by pressing buttons on his armrest).

After that, Molly saw the sunset (or was it the sun_rise? _they'd probably changed time zones by now) from the oval window on her other side but said nothing because Jim would've laughed at her for seeing beauty in something that happened every day.

Something_ ordinary._

Still, when they began to see the buildings below again (all alight because it was dark outside), no longer above the clouds, Molly did comment.

"There're so many…" she said, "Just in this one place there are so many people. It's so easy to forget how many there actually are on this planet. Seven billion, at least…"

"And every one of them exactly the same." Jim replied, "And I'm not just talking about the Han Chinese."

"_Jim!"_ Molly exclaimed in impersonal but still strong offense, sitting up sharply.

Jim pulled her back down into his arms, rolling his eyes at her political correctness.

"Calm down, I said I _wasn't_ talking about them." He defended, "Besides, everybody looks like ants from all the way up here. They're all so _small…"_

"We look small to them from down there, too." Molly returned.

"I don't think I _ever_ look 'small' 'down there'." Jim countered, chuckling.

"_Well…"_ Molly hummed, as if she was considering the premise and then politely disagreeing.

Now it was_ Jim's_ turn to be offended and _personally, _too.

"Don't make me push you out of the plane, darling…" he threatened sweetly in a sigh, gazing past her and out the window at a mountain range coming into view, then adding almost absent-mindedly, "…I've done it before, you know, _pushed people over the edge_—not always off of a plane, of course, and not always _literally,_ either. Sometimes just off a roof …_or out of a tree…"_

"Out of a _tree?"_ Molly repeated, again sitting up and turning away from the window to stare at Jim questioningly.

He laughed, just once and not the way one laughs at people _smaller _than them but the way one laughs at the god that makes_ them_ so small and so helpless.

Then his face was empty.

"You know what I do, Molly." Jim said, "I _'fix'_ things by_ breaking_ them, I _'help'_ people by _hurting _them. I do what I was I've always done."

"Tell me the story." Molly requested, evenly, looking Jim in the eyes.

And Jim smiled.

Once upon a time there was a little boy who wanted to learn how to fly and a little magician that turned him into a little bird.

The little bird flew away, leaving the world of trouble and beauty behind just a bit more empty.

(not) The End.

* * *

…_and as he fell, arms outstretched, the birds flapped their wings and flew away._

* * *

**As you can probably 'deduce', I've changed my mind about Jim (Richard?) actually being dead canonically. The two birds thing was just too perfect.**

**First thing I did when I got home was rewatch 'The Great Game' and 'The Reichenbach Fall'. It brought me back to the summer when I watched those episodes like everyday, multiple times lol. **

**People wonder why I don't read and don't even like to socialize. It's because I am not a multi-tasker at all. (which is why I can't update quickly anymore, too much social and schoolwork-not that that is technically a bad thing). **

**I am really only able to focus on one thing at a time. **

**What will it be after 'Sherlock' and this fanfiction...? **

**Even I don't know lol. **

**Please review! **


	23. Big Game Hunting

_**FIRST: **_

_**I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!**_

_**THANK YOU ALL FOR REVIEWING AND WAITING!**_

**Finally it is Thanksgiving Break so I have a chance to write, college is very busy because all classes assign projects/papers at the exact same time. **

**So, now here we go! **

**I know I'm one to take coincidences a little too seriously but…**

…**it's word game time again! **

**First, word association: **

"**lost Vermeer" **

"**there was a little old man in Argentina"**

**When you hear Argentina and lost artwork in the same story, you automatically think Nazis, right?**

**Argentina is known hideout for ex-Nazis, former president Peron allowing and even advocating for them to come there en masse. **

**Peron was an interesting dude because he was kind of the bridge between the political left and right...until his followers split violently into the communist faction and the fascist faction after he returned to Argentina from exile in Spain.**

**Peronism a form of populism specific to Argentina. **

**It is considered outside of left and right. It's tied to fascism, but not necessarily with racial/ethnic cleansing but often with segregation. Separate racial groups, ethnic groups, ideological groups are meant to cooperate for the good of the country in order to keep it from being controlled by outside forces but never mix together within the country. **

**I don't think any of that is used in Argentina today. **

_**If any of that information is incorrect and/or biased, I apologize and please correct me. **_

**Wikipedia is not the best source and my mind is not the best information synthesizer.**

**Well anyway, South America is like the universal (and stereotypical) hideout for Nazis (and most criminals). **

**So I was doing what I always do, looking up stuff on Wikipedia, and I find out that the Nazi escape routes to Argentina and South America after WW2 were called "Die Spinne".**

**Apparently, this translates to "The Spider" on Wikipedia but it probably was meant more like a spiderweb. **

**They were organized by some dude named Otto Skorzeny who has a creepy scar on his face and went onto organize an international security consulting firm called the Paladin Group that went around assassinating leaders of third world countries and trying to establish a 'Fourth Reich'. Skorzeny also was the one to out Benito Mussolini from Ally capture, among many other operations that make him seem like most competent military person in (relatively) recent history. **

**Skorzeny was also working with Americans, who got all the Nazi scientists smuggled into the US via Operation Paperclip (—who do you think Dr. Frankland from 'The Hounds of Baskerville' was working with in America? Nazi scientists).**

**And then The Paladin Group was working with the CIA to fight Communism in South America (because fighting Communism with Fascism definitely solves the problem), by aiding Operation Condor, as well as smuggling drugs and weapons (which was after Skorzeny died). **

**A condor is a vulture like bird of prey that the Argentine fascists used as their symbol in the thirties as the Nationalist Liberation Alliance. **

**Why Skorzeny is not the villain in like every other action movie I don't know.**

**So back to his spiderweb, what did the Allies call these escape routes?**

**Ratlines. **

**As in 'rat'. **

**Remember those clue words Moffat, Gatiss and Scott gave us at the end of the summer?**

**Rat, Wedding and Bow?**

**Now, I'm not doing show speculation or anything (even though Wikipedia also told me 'His Last Bow' does, in fact, involve German spies and what is the 'reich' in 'reichenbach', anyway?) but it all works in this story.**

**I promise that this was all quasi-relevant information for this story. **

**Also, with thanks to Wikipedia and GoogleMaps Buenos Aires is correct as possible. **

**I love the internet. **

**I love you all.**

* * *

The British embassy in Argentina was located in the Recoleta region of the huge capital city of Buenos Aires, on the edge of a forested park within a greater forest of classical-inspired stone office and apartment buildings.

When John Watson stepped off of the elevator (which he'd been immediately directed into upon entering the building) onto the top floor, he gazed at the methodical scrambling of embassy employees clearing desks and tables of unnecessary items and fetching whatever was necessary for the occupying operation before stepping forward into the room.

The nameless woman known only as Anthea stood by the long wooden meeting-table, next to the wheeled bulletinboard that an employee were tacking maps and photographs of the city onto and surrounded by more employees whom she finished giving orders to as soon as John got there.

"So this is how it always is, then?" John asked, gesturing around at the busy room, "You just show up wherever, mention Mycroft's name and everybody just does whatever you tell them to? Just like that?"

"Usually." Anthea affirmed, "But not in _this_ case. Mr. Holmes doesn't know about this and isn't going to. Today I just used _my _name."

"Which _is_…?" John attempted to which Anthea just scoffed, rolling her eyes and returning to her smartphone.

He set his bag onto the empty table, standing across it from her and shooting an ever-suspicious glance at Sebastian Moran who sat in one of the swivel chairs at the end with his arms folded and eyes also adjusting his mind to the new setting.

John looked away from him to see Gregory Lestrade enter from the same elevator doors, making the same pause before stepping off to give the room the same 'once-over'.

The reorganization the fifth floor was the same peaceful but hurried and chaotic transition between governments, it was more cleansing the unneeded than replacing it.

Amongst this, Lestrade found his only friend in the room, John, and walked over to him.

Before he could speak, however, an employee trotted up to place a tray of steaming coffee cups (styrofoam) and condiments (cream, sugar) onto the table.

"Well, this is really…_something…"_ Lestrade commented after a few seconds of awkward silence and when Anthea took a cup and a sip, he felt comfortable taking a coffee for him, "…And it's all supposed to be, you know, covert?"

"Mmhm." Anthea nodded, not looking up from the phone she was typing on.

"And so if Mycroft doesn't know about this and nobody's supposed to know who any of you people are…" Lestrade followed-up, "how does that work that you can just commandeer this whole embassy?"

"They're always rumors." Anthea explained, "We're like _angels_…powerful but nobody really believes in us until they get their own 'divine intervention'. And then they can do nothing but follow 'god's will'…or face 'his _wrath'." _

"...okay…" Lestrade accepted (sort of).

"Wow, you government people really are full of yourselves." John muttered, rolling his eyes.

"It's not arrogance if it's deserved." Anthea countered, finally glancing up from her phone to turn up her nose at John, "My employer had to assert his authority when he took over the department in the early 2000's. Make sure that everyone in the world that matters, especially in our own commonwealth, knew to obey him—instead of the previous leadership and their financers."

"And who were they?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Does it matter?" Anthea returned, also raising her eyebrow, "They're out of power now."

Anthea, Lestrade and John's heads all turned when they heard Moran laugh from the far end of table, the first vocalization he'd made since he'd arrived.

"Really?" he contested, "Then who do you think's funding Porlock and half people like him around the world?"

"Is that why your sister's trying to buy him out?" Lestrade asked, turning towards him.

Now Moran rolled his eyes.

"Oh? So Samantha couldn't even manage to keep _that_ a secret." He snorted, "Which is why I don't trust her enough to keep in touch. I don't know what she's doing and I'm sure a lot of people are after Porlock's job. He's a pushover. That's why they let him run the company to begin with—because they can control him. Problem is, everyone else can too. If he's getting bought, it's by his own people because they smell weakness all over him like wolves."

"Are you all hearing this man?" John interjected incredulously, pointing to Moran, " 'smell weakness like wolves'? What's next? _Thinning the herd?_ We shouldn't have brought him along on this mission, he may not be as flamboyant as Moriarty but he's obviously just as sick."

"Not this again." Moran groaned, "What are you going to do, Watson? Recommend me for counseling like you did the last time you didn't like my word choice?"

"We actually have the file from the therapist you were mandated to attend for three months, Mr. Moran." Anthea smiled, "You made 'significant progress in managing your anger and expressing it in more constructive ways'."

"Constructive as opposed to what?" John inquired, "Shooting people?"

"I didn't do that because I was angry." Moran stated, "I did what I was ordered to during my deployment."

"_Sure."_ John scoffed bitterly.

"_Yes."_ Moran growled.

They glared at each other for a long moment, both refusing to blink first as Lestrade and Anthea watched them and then glanced at each other awkwardly.

"You two don't have to like each other but you do have to work together." Anthea declared, turning back to John and Moran.

"How can any of us work with him when he used to work with Moriarty and kills for sport?" John said, "We can't trust him."

"I can't work with him if he won't work with me." Moran said, "And this team will never be successful while he keeps trying to get you and Lestrade not to trust me."

"You'll do what I order you to do Mr. Moran, and you, Doctor Watson—" Anthea began but was interrupted.

"I don't work for you, _ma'am."_ John reminded, "You can't tell _me_ what to do."

Anthea turned to Lestrade, "Mr. Lestrade, can you say something to him?"

"I'm staying out of this." Lestrade decided, backing away from the uneasy cooperating dismantling easily into a confrontation much like the one the four of them had had the day before.

After that tense early morning back in London, they'd agreed to track down Moriarty together and capture him.

Moran had divulged Moriarty's method of bypassing security, which they then used themselves, traveling in separate planes (to avoid detection (by Anthea's own coworkers—_and boss))_ all the way to Argentina, the location that the security guard had told them (at gunpoint) that Moriarty (and some woman) had flown to.

But now that they were all in the same room the proposed alliance was already breaking down before they'd even began their work.

"What happened in Afghanistan was three years ago now." Moran told John, "Get over it."

"Look, Moran, I'll work with you…" John conceded, then stating "But if you _even look_ like you're close to crossing the line, you're done. Just like Moriarty," and adding, "…and I don't care what the government has to say about that." when Anthea gave him a _questioning_ glance.

"I'm a straight shooter." Moran assured, flat and sarcastically.

They glared at each other again, both again refusing to blink first, and again causing the watching Lestrade and Anthea to glance at each other awkwardly.

Anthea broke the silence by reminding them that, "We need Jim alive. Do keep that in mind."

And so both Moran and John turned to glare at her.

She simply smiled.

"Now that that's settled, let's get to work."

* * *

As they traversed through Ezeiza International Airport, Molly and Jim passed the plaque memorial to the thirteen people killed there during the 1973 massacre, as did everyone else hurrying through the terminal.

Its metal was still semi-shiny, but not because it had been well-maintained over decades but because it was relatively new. It small, too, and so people passed as if it didn't exist by it the way people pass by history as it didn't happen.

"So now that we're here, are you going to tell me what we're doing in Argentina?" Molly asked Jim's back, hopefully, as she followed him through the sea of people he was parting.

"You mean you don't want to deduce it?" Jim replied, sarcastically surprised.

"No, I don't." Molly confirmed, matter-of-factly, speeding up to walk beside him, "So just tell me."

With the bag she carried, she had accidentally bumped a passerby, who exclaimed something in Spanish to which Molly exclaimed an apology in English.

Jim laughed.

"Where's the fun in that?" he dismissed, "Do you think_ Sherlock_ told _John_ everything when they were on their cases?"

"He told him the_ important_ things, like what they were doing." Molly stated, "And he always explained everything in the end. That's how John could put the cases up on his blog."

"Oh yes, _'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson'_…that was always a fun read." Jim reminisced "...I wonder why he stopped updating it." and Molly's look of contempt only encouraged him to add, "Don't be jealous, darling, I liked _yours_ too. But _you_ stopped writing it before you got to the good part."

"If we're making comparisons, then Sherlock was at least _nice_ to John even though he was…_insensitive_ to everyone." Molly compared, "You're still mean to me, sometimes, just like you are to everybody else…and sometimes _worse."_

Jim chuckled.

"I make up it up to you." He claimed, "Besides, I'm sure John didn't put_ everything_ on his blog."

"That's not my point." Molly dismissed, with a yet unsurrendering sigh, "You promised you'd tell me what's going on, Jim, now please tell me."

"Fine..." Jim acquiesced, with a surrendering sigh, "Do you remember in court when Sherlock called my puppet show a 'criminal web with a thousand strings'?"

"_Threads."_ Molly corrected, "He said 'threads' not 'strings'."

"Sure, sweetheart, whatever you say." Jim patronized, rolling his eyes, "Now, as_ I_ was saying, Sherlock hired me to _disconnect_ those strings. Cut loose the bugs stuck on the web, make them forget who reeled them in, make them forget who even_ spun_ it."

"So you're stopping crime?" Molly tested.

"_No."_ Jim denied, "I'm making it as if it never happened in first place. Well, _we_ are now that you're helping me."

Molly paused, glancing around as they walked to make sure they weren't being watched or listened to and deciding that the Spanish chatter of those surrounding them meant that their conversation (sprinkled with offhand confessions to crimes) would not be understood.

It was _safe._

"When you first started interacting with Sherlock, you revealed your crimes to get him to solve them…" she began, "…and now you're helping Sherlock to undo everything you've ever done…"

"Is there a question?" Jim questioned.

"Yes." Molly answered, _"Why?" _

To that Jim just laughed, shaking his head.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked, "You said the answer yourself."

Now Molly just gave him a confused glance, shaking _her _head.

"_Sherlock._" Jim said, "Because Sherlock."

Which wasn't the answer Molly had wanted nor much of an answer at all, and so she slowed down to let Jim pass her as he pushed open the glass doubledoors of the airport exit.

Outside, the two got into one of the many taxis (all colored black and yellow) awaiting passengers, with their bags.

"Let me do the talking." Jim cautioned, "If he thinks we're just stupid tourists he'll take us the long way and overcharge us."

Molly nodded a yes in response, not speaking because she was not yet sure whether Jim spoke Spanish or was going to use a fake accent.

She remained silent as they sat in the backseat, listening to Jim snap at the taxi driver for 'accidentally' making some wrong turns, talking in his normal accent and in English—except when calling him what were most likely regional derogatory terms (based on the driver's reaction).

It was while hearing Jim explain what happened to the last cab driver that had displeased him that Molly realized that Jim knew Buenos Aires well enough to give directions to a specific address while carrying on this argument.

He'd been here before and long enough to learn the area.

Staring out the window Molly saw the tall buildings of the city in the distance, slowly approaching, as the other cars and closer smaller buildings (mostly houses) sped by next to her.

Mostly there was deep green fields and forest surrounding the highway towards the urban area, and instead of continuing towards the city the taxi turned off onto a sideroad that led up to the bushwalls of a gated community.

There they were finally kicked out of the cab by its cursing driver (who could not contact the authorities about these pesky foreigners for he had no taxi license) and simply walked through the bushes into the expensive housing development.

Molly followed Jim through the neighborhood of miniature mansions (new and modernized Spanish Colonials with flat roofs and painted in pastel colors), most with tended gardens and their own pools, as well as their own gates and bushes.

"So, where are we going?" she asked him, adjusting the way her bag hung on her shoulder uncomfortably.

"To visit a disgraced professor—no, not my brother." Jim answered, then turning to cut diagonally across one house's bushes, yard and garden to reach the property next door.

Molly continued straight and used the designated path to enter the property, hurrying to catch up with Jim who now stood on the doorstep of a soft pink house with its curtains drawn tightly shut.

"Is this the 'old friend' you mentioned on the plane?" she inquired.

"No." Jim said, and the doorbell rung as he pressed it.

He was just about to press it again (and again and again) when they heard running footsteps from within the house and the door swung (half) open.

At first, Jim and Molly saw nothing, but then they looked down to see a little girl (maybe four or five years old) standing in the partial doorway. The white smock she wore over her dress was covered in fingerprints and smudges of various primary colors, as were her hands.

"Um…hola…?" Molly greeted, tentatively, smiling and waving at the child.

Jim raised his eyebrow, eyeing the girl skeptically.

His gaze frightened her into running away from the door, down the hallway and into a room from which a middle-aged woman (with matching bobbed black hair but without a messy smock) emerged to glance at Jim and Molly, and then send the little girl quickly up the stairs further down the hall.

"What are you doing here?!" she demanded curtly, in accented English, "I was told you died in England. I'm disappointed you did not."

"Dead? _Me?"_ Jim snorted, "Who told you that?"

"It was on the internet," The woman stated, "and Mr. Amberley confirmed it. He said you were killed by secret agents of your government."

"Not _'my'_ government, I refuse to be ruled by any authority—especially the British." Jim dismissed, "And you should know better than to get your information from someone as paranoid and imaginative as Amberley—whatever happened to that Da Vinci Coder, anyway?"

"Well, when you informed on us to a detective, both of our reputations in the international art community were ruined and we were investigated. Amberley's collection was confiscated and he was deported back to the United States—he was here illegally and we don't want criminals in our great country. He's dealing art back in his homeland exclusively now."

"Gotta love that old US of A, the only western power in the world that doesn't care about international opinion."

"I was not so lucky to have a country to escape to. I was put under house arrest and not allowed to have any contact with former criminal associates. So get inside and close the door before someone sees you."

Jim sauntered forwards into the hall, towards the woman, leaving Molly to step in after him and close the door.

The walls of the hallway were covered with paintings of various art forms and eras to the point of being overwhelming as Molly glanced around at all of them.

"And who's she?" the middle-aged woman asked, giving Molly the same raised eyebrow and skeptical eye that Jim had given her daughter.

Jim smirked.

"Eva, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend Molly." He introduced, gesturing to Molly triumphantly, "You said I'd never find anybody who'd put up with me for more than a few weeks but we've been together on and off for about two years now."

(Omitting the fact that one such 'off' period lasted over twelve months and occurred before they were ever _'officially'_ together.)

"Hello, it's nice to meet you." Molly greeted, giving the woman who now had a name, Eva, the same tentative wave and smile that she had given her daughter.

"Nice to meet you, too." Eva returned, then continuing "You must be very strong to survive Jim Moriarty for that long…and very stupid to have stayed with him. Tell me, Molly, do you regret it yet?"

The forwardness of the statement and its following question jolted Molly.

"...Excuse me, how can you ask something like that?" Molly replied, soft but sharp and cordial but cold, "It's really not your business…"

"Really?" Eva disagreed, having no reason to be polite to either Jim or Molly (and many reasons to be rude) "Because it once was—or did he not tell you?"

Molly didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what Eva meant and so masked her reaction to the statement as much as possible, hiding all but a brief microexpression visible only to Jim's trained and hungry eyes.

"Don't pretend that you're special, Eva." Jim scoffed, "Molly knows I shag almost everybody I work with—it's how I know if I can trust them and how I get them to trust _me._ If anyone's 'special', it's Molly, I actually dated her before I started sleeping with her," and Molly smiled triumphantly…until Jim added, _"… course,_ now that I'm working with _her,_ too, it's business as usual." to which she frowned and folded her arms.

"I guess you can't keep private life private…" she muttered in offense and slight embarrassment.

"Oh Molly, I forget you're still only just learning how to play this game." Jim mused, "Oversharing is another 'trust-building exercise'. I tell Eva a some of my personal info, the stuff normal people normally keep to themselves, so that when I ask her a question she feels obligated to give me an answer—and an honest one at that. That way I get important secrets without ever divulging any sensitive information myself."

"And how is explaining that in front of her going to help us?" Molly asked, staring at Jim as if in shock that he could be so stupid.

"…uh, didn't I just explain that?" Jim asked, staring at Molly as if in shock that she could be so stupid.

"Why should I help you?" Eva snorted, dismissively, "It's because of you, 'Mr. Moriarty', that I lost my job at the university and got put under house arrest."

"Don't be such a bitter old bruja, _'Professor Garcia'."_ Jim chided, "You still got to keep all the money you made illegally by artificially aging forged paintings to sell on the black market—and got to keep some of the paintings, too, I see…"

He gazed around amusedly at all the art on the walls. Upon closer examination, he and Molly could both tell that there were repeats of the same image placed periodically among the rows and rows of paintings.

"They are all worthless." Eva stated, "A few of them are forgeries and the rest might as well be."

"_Definitely."_ Jim agreed, snorting as he tapped one of the more modern-looking pieces that resembled the smock that Eva's daughter wore, "This one's _terrible,_ a three year old could do that."

It rocked back and forth.

"My three year old_ did_ do that..." Eva sniffed, "She's improved since."

"She must be very creative." Molly tried, reaching over to steady the small rocking canvas, "It looks nice."

"The rest are trash cluttering my house." Eva complained, "Nobody will buy them because they know I was involved with making fakes, so I am unable to get rid of them."

"I think they're still beautiful." Molly countered, "Who cares if they're not original, if they look exactly the same why are they any less valuable? Somebody still worked hard to paint them."

"People don't buy art because its 'beautiful'." Eva chortled at such 'naiveté', "They buy art to own history—the physical manifestation of a time and place, of the artist and his mind, that survives long after everything else is changed or gone. That is why only the originals mean anything."

"Or they buy expensive art to sell it later at a higher price, like stocks or property, they appreciate in value." Jim added, "These fakes are as worthless as an inflated currency—you could burn them if you needed the firewood."

"And my reputation is just as worthless, thanks to you." Eva scowled, "I never cared about the money, I'm just glad I have because I can longer work in my field."

"If you didn't care about the money you could've said no when the foreign stranger showed up at your office at the university, offering you a large sum to join a forgery operation." Jim reminded, "…or was I and my large sum just _too _persuasive?"

Eva rolled her eyes, groaning.

"Just tell me what you want so I can refuse to give it to you and you can leave." She requested impatiently.

"The old man who painted the forgeries you aged." Jim declared, "I want to know who and where he is, and what happened to him."

"I only aged those paintings because _you _hired me to." Eva told him, "I have no idea who painted them and I thought it was best to keep it that way."

"You mean you never met him, even after I left?" Jim questioned, skeptically, "But you said you were just _so impressed _with the artwork that you wanted to compliment the artist _personally._ I really thought you would've been 'nude modeling' for him now if he could still get it up, since you'd already given up on you husband by that point."

"My husband and I were…having difficulties during that time." Eva defended, "Now that I am a housewife by court order we are fine. As you can see, we have a daughter now."

"Well, you know, DNA tests are just as easy to forge as paintings these days." Jim shrugged.

"Jim, when were you last in Argentina?" Molly asked, suddenly very concerned, then turning to Eva, "And how old did you say your daughter was, Mrs. Garcia?"

Jim tried to maintain a straight face as Eva glared at him with disgusted narrowed eyes, and Molly stared at him with worried wide eyes.

"Your boyfriend is a weasel." Eva spat, glancing over at Molly.

"Hey, that old man could've been a silver fox for all I know." Jim redirected, with another shrug.

"If _you _never met this 'old man' why would _I_ have?" Eva reasoned, "I always received the paintings to age artificially from employees of the Durandos. They never even mentioned an old man or whoever they got the forgeries from. I just assumed that the 'old man' was a mistranslation or that you made him up as a strange joke."

"I don't make _'strange jokes'."_ Jim countered, offendedly.

"_Sick_ jokes…" Molly muttered.

(Still, she was sighing in relief.)

"Either way I know nothing about any old man." Eva declared, "So it's time for you to leave and never come back."

She started towards the door, gesturing for Jim and Molly to follow her as she passed them and opened it for them.

"Not just yet." Jim refused, turning to face her but standing firmly in the same spot, "What about the Durandos? You're on house arrest. What slap on the wrist did they receive for funding the faux Van Gough?"

"They have connections within the government, they were not investigated." Eva informed, "They donated some art to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes as a bribe."

"What did they donate?" Jim inquired.

"How should I know?" Eva laughed, "I've been captive inside my own home for past two years. Obviously I have not been to the museum to see."

"Well, you're no help at all, then." Jim grumbled.

"Go see the Durandos if you need help." Eva suggested, snidely, "Perhaps, if you ask nicely, they won't have you killed for almost exposing them."

"I'm sure they must've forgiven me for that by now, don't you think?" Jim hoped.

"No, I don't think." Eva snorted, shaking her head, "…why did you do it, anyway? You set up the perfect system, we were all getting rich…why did you tell that detective the 'Vermeer' painting was fake?"

Molly sighed.

"Don't waste your time asking Jim questions like that," she warned Eva, "He never gives a straight answer."

She expected Jim to say something about Sherlock again, but instead Jim patted her on the head as he headed past her towards the door Eva held open.

"Maybe you're just special." He told Molly, still strolling and then stopping in front of Eva to tell _her,_ "It was something you said, actually, that Vermeer didn't like to do cityscapes. It made me wonder about the original."

"I said that_, yes,_ but I meant that he did not paint many—not that he did not paint cityscapes at all." Eva qualified, forehead wrinkling in ponderment, "They were not popular in his time and he was popular for portraits of women in daily life. But he_ is_ known to have done three. If I had known what you would do, I would never have said that at all."

"Tell me, Eva, do you regret it yet?" Jim smiled, finally walking out the front door.

And Molly smiled, hurrying after him.

Grimacing and rolling her eyes, Eva shut (slammed) the door behind them.

* * *

The photos were arranged on the bulletinboard like an art exhibit on a museum wall.

High definition and in color they illustrated the story that the fugitive Jim Moriarty was alive and that a certain Molly Hooper had accompanied him to Buenos Aires.

Lestrade stood in front of the board, close, to examine it and then took a step back to speak.

"I wish I could say I'm surprised but I'm not." he sighed bitterly, folding his arms and shaking his head at the pictures, "I had a feeling this was going on for a while now…I just didn't have any _proof_—but _you _obviously did though," he turned to glare at Anthea, "some of these pictures are old. Like the one of them in front of The Eye, that's obviously from winter and Molly looks scared. I can't believe you people at the government knew about this that long and did nothing. You didn't help her. You just sat back and watched, and let Moriarty corrupt her."

"Well, it's a bit more complicated than that—" Anthea attempted from where she leaned against the meeting table.

"What _I_ can't believe is that you had people following Molly, and she and Moriarty _still _got away." John interrupted, almost laughing, "Why didn't you just arrest them both when he came to get her? Or better yet, just arrest them during the months you took pictures of them shacking up in a hotel room!"

He stood on the other side of them table than the two by the bulletinboard.

"Let me explain," Anthea tried again, "we literally needed a hundred people to capture Jim Moriarty the first time we arrested him, otherwise he always gets away—as you can see from the private military company's inability to hold him in their own headquarters. It's their fault he escaped. I directed all my employees to that location to make sure we caught him but by the time we got there, Jim was already gone."

"The solution to this would've been just to shoot him." Moran declared, finally standing up but remaining where he had sat a few feet away from the others.

"That's the one thing I can agree with you on." John agreed, glancing over at him in grudging approval, "Mycroft better have a damn good reason for wanting Moriarty alive."

Lestrade and Moran both nodded in concurrence with John's statement, turning to Anthea (who also concurred but kept that to herself out of loyalty to her employer).

"It's classified." She stated, "…even to _me."_

"We'll see." John decided.

He then pulled out one of the swivel chairs to sit down at the table where the bags, the coffee and now a folder sat.

Lestrade did the same, sitting across from him, and Moran sat back down in his original seat.

Now only Anthea was standing.

"The last time I saw Molly Hooper and Jim Moriarty together, he was physically assaulting her." She recounted, "Before we do anything, I think we need to determine whether she's come with Jim here willingly or as a hostage."

"I don't think she's not a hostage—at least not anymore." Lestrade decided, "She's been fooling us all for a long time."

"Yeah, she had enough chances to get away from Jim and she didn't take them." Moran agreed, "Anything he's done to her, she was asking for it."

"You don't think she was just too afraid to try to leave him, to act against him?" Anthea considered, "Mr. Lestrade, you were a detective. Don't tell me you haven't seen what happens to people after they've been held hostage for longer period of time."

"I have." Lestrade affirmed, grimly, "And I've learned that sometimes it's just too late to save them."

Anthea swallowed and then looked to John, asking "What do you think, Doctor Watson?"

"I think it doesn't matter." John answered, emotionlessly, "Molly's not our primary target. _Moriarty _is and we need to get him this time no matter what. Hopefully she's smart enough to stay out of our way."

Moran smirked, _very_ _faintly_, in appreciation but Lestrade gritted his teeth inside his mouth and clenched his fist slightly under the table; invisible expressions of his distaste for John's plan.

Lestrade did feel betrayed by Molly but he blamed Moriarty for her betrayal and didn't want Molly to be hurt—_killed _even—because of that criminal.

"Alright, then." Anthea accepted, finally descending into the seat across from Moran but nodding at John before addressing all three men, "These are pictures taken today from security camera. They show Jim and Molly entering the National Museum of Fine Arts fifteen minutes ago."

She opened the folder in front of her to reveal the photographs that Lestrade, John and Moran leaned in to see.

The museum was a muted redbrown with only dummy windows and towering pillars for a façade. The couple was walking up the stone steps, under the banners, towards the tall front doors.

"We need to start tracking them and find out why they came to Argentina." Anthea continued, "That way we know what to expect when we capture them."

"I'll go." John volunteered, already standing up.

"I will too." Lestrade matched quickly, also standing up.

He needed a chance to talk to John alone, without the untrustworthy ears of the government listening in. Hopefully, Anthea and Moran wouldn't demand to accompany him and John to the museum.

They didn't.

"Okay." Anthea agreed, "You two go. Follow them but don't confront them—"

"And try to be subtle about it, too." Moran interjected to add, "You tried to follow me, before, Lestrade and you stayed too close. Both of them can sense a tail pretty quickly and Jim just assumes he's important enough to always have _someone_ watching him. He'll let you keep following him for half an hour or more, to get your guard down, before he tries to lose you. So stay back. _Far. _And never be directly behind them because Molly looks over her shoulder about every four minutes when she walks in a public space."

Lestrade and John eyed Moran, brows slightly raised and unsure exactly what to make of that advice.

"…um, thank you for that expertise, Mr. Moran." Anthea said after a few seconds of silence.

"I monitored them for almost eight months." Moran explained, shrugging up at the two standing men, "They're used to me, that's why I can't go now. They would notice me—they'd never _expect_ you two."

John and Lestrade looked at him, then glanced at each other and then turned back to Anthea.

"You two go, Mr. Moran and I will stay here and think of a plan." She declared, "We don't have the amount of manpower we would in if we were still London—or if Mr. Holmes were involved and so we need a plan that can subdue Jim quickly so he won't have time to develop his own plan to escape or fool us, and somewhere where he has nowhere to run or hide and no one around to witness us take him or for him to use as hostages."

Lestrade and John nodded in approval, pushing in their chairs and then leaving the fifth floor of the embassy the way they'd come.

After they'd gone, Moran turned to Anthea.

"You should've told them Sherlock's alive." He said.

"It's not my secret to tell." Anthea responded, powerlessly, "It's not even my employers—that's why _he_ hasn't, either."

"Something tells me _Jim _won't feel the same way." Moran commented, "If Watson and Lestrade don't hear it from us, they'll hear it from _him._ And you say how angry Watson got yesterday when he found out you lied to him, so you and your employer better get ready for_ that_ war."

"Whenever John finds out, I'm sure Mr. Holmes and I will be fine…" Anthea said, glancing down at her smartphone but not pressing any buttons, "It doesn't matter if he's mad at us. But _Sherlock_…I don't know what will happen if John doesn't forgive him."

* * *

"Who are the Durandos?" Molly asked as tried to keep pace with Jim who was hurrying far too quickly through the art museum to actually admire (or even really get a good look at) the exhibits.

She was now carrying both her bag and his bag, as she had been since they'd gotten out of the second taxi (which Jim had paid for this time—using Douglas Gordon's money) and he had forgotten to pick up his upon getting out.

The museum wasn't overly crowded that late afternoon but the other people (visitors, employees, tour groups) in its Romanesque main halls were beginning to get bothered by and even _suspicious_ of the two strange tourists that seemed to be speedwalking aimlessly around the building.

"Crime family, every city's got a few—although most of the gangs here are just overzealous football fans." Jim answered, "But not the Durandos. They're _classics._ They live in the swamp by the river and shoot anybody that comes near them without an invitation. Durando's not their real surname though, they're less Conquistador and more Third Reich."

He and Molly had finally made it to the wing of the museum that housed the paintings, where they slowed down, but even that section was divided by style and era into a maze of minimalistic rooms decorated only by what hung sparsely on their white walls.

"You're saying that _Nazis _were the ones forging the art and selling it?!" Molly followed-up.

"Not Nazis _anymore,_ just their _descendants_ and they weren't selling it, either." Jim qualified, "That was Dan Amberley."

"Was _he _the old friend you mentioned on the plane?" Molly asked him again.

"No, he was a rich American with nothing better to do than buy art he thought Freemasons used to communicate with and try to crack their codes." Jim told her, "I met him in Egypt where he was trying to purchase a pyramid from the Egyptian government and introduced him to the Durandos when they needed a new front."

"Why did they need a new 'front'?"

"Because their old contacts in Italy had their forgery factory busted when a thief broke one of their 'art students' out. He escaped but the police tracked him there and uncovered the whole thing. Someone even made a documentary about it. They'd been training orphaned children to replicate art for sale on the black market since after World War Two when the old villa was a storage unit for Nazi plunder. The idiot allies actually believed it was a home for unwanted children and let it stay operational—or maybe they left alone in exchange for a cut of the money."

Molly raised an eyebrow, skeptical of this story and Jim grinned because this story was one of his favorites to tell.

(And he'd been unsatisfied when Sherlock hadn't perused '_The Case of the Lost Vermeer' _any further than to declare the painting was a fake. The two of them could've had a lot more fun with it, he always thought.)

"…Okay…" Molly accepted (sort of), "And how do you know the Durandos?"

"I met them through a friend." Jim stated, without all the tangented explanations he'd given in the answers to her previous questions.

"Is _that_ the old friend?" Molly inquired for the third time that day.

"Nope, he was their son." Jim chirped, "I say 'was' because last time I saw him he was an _enlightened youth_ rebellious against his parent's _outdated ideas_. He was planning to change his name and leave the country to get away from the Durandos."

"And when was all this? You never told me when or why you came to Buenos Aires before."

"It was back in 2007, I think…"

Jim paused to remember, tapping his chin with one finger, thoughtfully, as if he was pondering the painting he'd stopped in front of and was looking up at.

It was a portrait of a young man with the soft face and long hair of a woman, painted in mostly shades of beige and brown.

It made Jim smile and Molly, who now stood beside him (and the two bags she had temporarily set down), glance around at the rest of the paintings in the room.

There was a colorful one of men on horseback, one of yellow three wilting red) flowers in a vase, and a religious image of angels that looked slightly burned at its edges.

This was the room of the disputed.

Lost and found art that was priceless if real but worthless if fake. European and North American galleries owned all the most valuable Western artwork and so Argentina was happy to have the pieces despite the possibility that were forged.

"These are the ones." Jim decided, turning away from the portrait to face Molly, "The charitable bribe that the Durandos made to their government."

"How do we know they're not forgeries, too?" Molly wondered.

"That's the beauty of it, we _don't."_ Jim shrugged, "But the old man had to have been copying from something, the 'lost Vermeer' wasn't the only painting the Durandos had sold."

"But none of _these_ are Vermeers." Molly pointed out, "And the forgery Sherlock outed in 2010, that was supposed to be a Vermeer, wasn't it? And we're here for the original, right?"

"If we can find it." Jim affirmed, "If not, another fantastic forgery'll do. Sherlock and I will just have to a better job of keeping it out of the press this time."

"Why does Sherlock need the real one?" Molly inquired, "What's he going to do with it?"

"Replace the fake with the real to make it look like there never was a fake." Jim informed, "Make it look like he just made up the story of it being a forgery for attention."

"Why?" Molly asked for the second time that day.

And Jim just laughed again.

"Ask Sherlock." He snarked, knowing full well that Molly wouldn't have the courage to do so and Sherlock wouldn't answer her if she did.

Molly sighed.

"…Nevermind." She said, "So what now?"

"We're gonna have to break into the Durando's bunker and see if they have what we want." Jim detailed, "Then we steal it if they do and make them tell us where it is if they don't—all without getting killed."

Molly blinked.

This kind of crime was what she'd come along with Jim to stop him from doing.

"No." she said, "There has to be another way."

"We could_ hire_ somebody else to do all that…" Jim considered, "but I doubt Sherlock would appreciate me subcontracting out the job he gave me."

Molly opened her mouth to reject the plan again but Jim's head whipped around away from her upon seeing something (_someone_) out of the corner of his eye.

And then Jim was gone.

Scooping up the bags, she rushed after him as he rushed out of the small room of disputed artwork and after another figure down the pillared hallway. The figure attempted to disappear, but the 'crowd' was too sporadic and small to hide him and so Jim finally cornered him in a round room with a domed ceiling that branched out into many other halls.

Molly arrived to see a museum tour-guide one side of the abstract metal sculpture in the center of the sun-shaped room and Jim on the other side trying to get to where the employee was without the employee going in the opposite direction.

"What's going on here?!" Molly demanded.

When Jim glanced back at Molly, the employee took his chance to run but Jim leaned over to grab him by his light blue uniform jacket and pull him back.

"Ayuda—!" the employee started to cry for help, but Jim covered his mouth.

"Stop!" Molly shouted, running over to the two, "Jim, what are you doing?!"

"Getting us another way to get to the Durandos." Jim explained, trying to hold the struggling employee still.

Sensing sympathy in Molly, the employee's eyes widened in a pleading glance towards her.

"Just let him go!" Molly begged.

Jim groaned, rolling his eyes and looking away from Molly to look down at the squirming younger man who he probably couldn't hold onto for very much longer anyway.

"If I let you go, do you promise not to run?"

"I only ran because _you_ chased me!" thee employee replied, finally throwing Jim's hand off of his mouth and Jim off of him. His accent was a blend of the different languages he'd spoken his whole life.

"I only chased you because you ran." Jim returned, sourly, folding his now free arms, "Why did you run?"

"Why do you think I did?" the employee muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and glaring at the ground, too afraid to make eye contact with Jim—let alone _glare_ at him, "I never believed you were dead and I was right. Now you're here to kill me like you do everyone else _stupid enough_ to cross you or you're done _using."_

Jim threw his head back and cackled, dramatically enough to cause both the museum employee _and_ Molly to tense, and loud enough for the laughter to echo off the dome above.

"I don't wanna _kill_ you, Alois." Jim snorted.

"That's not my name anymore." The man now known as Alois (despite not wanting to be), "I changed it."

"You changed your hair, too, I see." Jim noticed, reaching for the light brown, "So what's the new name?"

"I'm not telling you." Alois refused, jerking back, "I don't even know_ your_ real name—Moriarty? Brook? _Napoleon?"_

"You knew that one was a joke." Jim dismissed, "Because he was short."

"No, I didn't!" Alois denied, then turning to speak to Molly, "Do you know who this _criminal_ is? He's responsible for terrorist attacks, murders and robberies all over the world! Whoever he told you he was, he lied!"

"I know who he is." Molly stated, evenly, then asking "…who are you?"

"I already _told _you who he was, Molly." Jim answered for him, with an exaggerated sigh, "He's the Durandos' _son._ Do try to keep up."

"I thought you told me he left Argentina." Molly reminded.

"I _tried_ to leave." Alois confirmed, "I was going to go with HUNGER when they moved to Mumbai but they found out who you were and kicked me out."

"What's 'HUNGER'?" Molly asked.

"It's an activist group, they make art to fight for human rights and raise money for their causes." Alois explained, "If Jim told you who I was, then you should understand why I wanted to help them and make up for what my family's done. Now I can't because of _him."_

"Don't blame me, it's your own fault." Jim chided, "You let some stranger with a fake French accent chat you up, tell him all sorts of sensitive information about group members—including their connections to drug cartels and communist militias—and bring him with you to an after party where he can blackmail the leader?_ I _would've thrown you out, too."

Alois sighed, staring down and kicking at the tiled floor.

"Don't feel bad…" Molly tried to console him, "Jim tricked me, too. He does it to everyone."

"He does it to get what he wants." Alois specified, looking up at her and then over at Jim, "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want something. So what do you want?"

"How do you feel about visiting you parents?" Jim inquired.

"No." Alois said immediately, "I'm not talking to them anymore and I haven't since 2008."

"So what, then?" Jim laughed, "You've just been working this boring job as a tour guide doing the same thing all day, every day for four years? I'm disappointed in you, Al. You could be doing so much better for yourself."

"Anything's better than being a criminal." Alois countered.

"Yeah, well, it's really _not."_ Jim disagreed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "And so I'll be kind enough to pay you the kind of money you can't make honestly if you just bring me to see your dear old mum and dad."

"I already told you _no."_ Alois repeated, "I don't want anything to do with them or you. Just leave me alone or else I'll call security."

Jim snorted at that but when Alois turned to walk away, Jim moved to block his path and was no longer laughing.

"Just let him leave." Molly said, "If he doesn't want to help us, you can't force him."

"_Of course I can."_ Jim contradicted, glancing back at her, "Now shut up and watch me work my magic."

Molly and Alois both tried to talk but Jim continued, strolling towards Alois with relaxed menace.

"Listen to me, amigo, you're going to take me to visit your parents and make sure they give me a warm welcome and anything_ else _I ask for." He told him, "Sure, your life's already a _dull purgatory _now but if you don't do what I want, I'll make it a _living hell._ I know you believe me because you know it's happened before, you know how many lives I've destroyed. Well, 'never again', right, Ally?"

"…Fine." Alois conceded, bitterly, "I'll call _those people_ and set up a meeting for you. You can come back here tomorrow and I'll tell you what they say. I already know they won't be happy that you're still alive and have come here."

"Would you say they'll be _fuehrer-ious?"_ Jim ventured, smirking.

"Is that all?" was all Alois asked, flatly.

"_For now."_ Jim conditioned, still smiling as he started away from him, _"Auf Wiedersehen,_ Alois, see you tomorrow."

Alois glared at Jim's back as he walked away, back down the stone hall he'd come. But when Molly passed, once again hurrying after him, Alois looked her in the eyes.

He wasn't a glare and it wasn't the pleading glance from before.

No, it was _pity._

* * *

For a moment, John and Lestrade had thought they'd been spotted by Jim Moriarty in the art museum they'd been discreetly following him and Molly but he then went on to chase an innocent tour-guide instead, causing them to sigh audibly in relief from behind the pillars concealing them.

Once both their targets were down the hall and distracted by the museum employee, the former army doctor and former detective inspector entered the small room that Molly and Moriarty had just exited.

"All this art stuff…" Lestrade mused, gazing around at the paintings on the white walls, "…it reminds me of that case back in 2010."

"The one with the forged Vermeer?" John identified, examining the burned painting closely because he recognized the crusade-era art style.

"Yeah, that one." Lestrade confirmed.

Neither of them mentioned the name of the man who'd solved that case.

"The gallery director from the Czech Republic did say she'd gotten the painting from an old man in Argentina." John remembered, "And that Moriarty set the whole thing up." Lestrade added.

"But why would Moriarty care about that case _now?"_ Lestrade wondered, brow furrowing.

"It doesn't matter." John stated, turning away from the picture to face Lestrade, "All that matters is that we get him. And once we do, I won't let him out of my sight until I see him dead. I would go shoot him right now, but Anthea has my gun."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond to that statement and so finally decided to change the subject.

"Listen, John…" he began, "Have you thought about what you're going to do once this is all over and Moriarty is, well, dead?"

John blinked, surprised by the question.

"No. " He admitted, shrugging then quickly adding the obligatory "Probably go back to work as a doctor, I guess…"

"Well, you should consider coming to work for the Custodian firm." Lestrade told him, "They need ex-military people like you and they pay really well—"

"I thought you were only working there to find out more about Moran and Moriarty." John recounted.

"I _was." _Lestrade affirmed, "And I got it. The files I saw there confirmed everything Anthea told us about Moriarty having a brother with the same name and Moran working for him—otherwise I never would've believed that crazy story."

"They just let you see their files like that? I thought you were still on a 'trial period' before they officially hired you."

"Samantha volunteered that information and gave me the files."

"'Samantha'? You mean Samantha _Moran._ You told me she's Moran's _sister. _You know _can't_ trust her."

"I realize that, but she's been enemies with the government since they arrested her brother and she's not a fan of Moriarty either. She can help us if Mycroft decides to keep Moriarty alive or he somehow escapes again."

"I don't need 'help' to make sure that doesn't happen."

Lestrade folded his arms.

"We don't know what Mycroft and the government are going to do when we catch Moriarty." He reasoned, "If things get bad, we can't go up against them alone."

"_We_ won't have to." John assured, folding _his_ arms, "I don't care if Mycroft wants Moriarty alive. Once we've got him, I'm going to kill him—Moran, too, if I can."

"You can't—"

"I _have _to. Since no one else will."

"Still, it's murder—"

"Are you saying they don't _deserve_ it? Are you saying the world _wouldn't _be better off with the two of them dead?"

John asked the question evenly, staring at Lestrade seriously. Lestrade mirrored the evaluating stare, and spoke just as plainly.

"No." he stated carefully, "I'm saying that if you try this, John, you'll be killed. Probably within seconds."

"I know." John replied.

"You're a good person, you don't have to sacrifice yourself." Lestrade said, "People like them aren't worth your life—"

"Yes, but the people I'm protecting _are."_ John completed, "I want you to know this is about revenge for Sherlock. It's about the ordinary people who _aren't _brilliant or wealthy or powerful. The people who get used and thrown away at will, like they're worthless, by people like Moriarty and Moran and Mycroft, too, who just do whatever they want and don't care about anybody else but themselves. The people like _us."_

Again Lestrade had to pause to consider John's words.

He agreed with everything he said but he didn't want his friend to die. He didn't want to _let_ his friend die.

Lestrade wondered if John_ wanted_ to die…

"You've been planning to do this since before we got to Argentina, haven't you?" Lestrade guessed, to which John nodded, "…Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you have kids, Greg, and I don't want you to get hurt." John explained, "So when this all happens, don't try to stop me and don't try to stop me from getting killed. I don't want anybody to think you were in on it."

"I can't let you do this." Lestrade insisted.

"You _have_ to." John insisted.

"No—"

"Don't forget that we wouldn't be here if you'd never arrested Sherlock in the first place, _Lestrade._ You knew Donovan was wrong, but you still went to the chief superintendent and look how things turned out. You _have_ to let me make things right."

Lestrade sighed in surrender.

John wasn't asking him to stay out of this for his own protect as a friend, anymore. Now he was_ telling_ him to as _Sherlock's_ friend.

"Alright…" he said, looking down at the floor rather than John or the paintings on the walls.

"Thank you." John said, looking at nothing.

And after another pause of silence, finally Lestrade turned and started towards the doorway to the museum hall, not speaking until his back was to John.

"We should probably head back to embassy now."

* * *

That evening, Molly was finally able to relieve her arms and shoulders of the weight of her and Jim's respective bags (that were actually originally both hers) when they checked into a hotel in the Palermo district of Buenos Aires.

Named after a city in Italy, Palermo was a tribute to the different styles and eras of European architecture as well as a clean model of modernity with its skyscrapers, shops, restaurants, bars, cafes and nightclubs. And still, despite this concentration of urban urbanity, there was still room for parks and plants.

Molly wished she could've been able to appreciate where she was and could've been there under different circumstances (not that a vacation with her boyfriend paid for by a supposedly-dead Wall Street banker was _all_ that bad) but she had been preoccupied the entire taxi ride to the hotel by how Jim had behaved in the art museum.

It was one thing for Jim to be, well,_ Jim_ to her or to people like Sherlock and Mycroft and Moran and Anthea. _That _she was _very_ used to.

It was just part of being with him and anyone who sought him out, for whatever reason, knew what they were 'signing up for'.

But to see Jim threaten Alois, who'd been tricked (hurt) by Jim before and just wanted to be left alone, made Molly sick to her stomach.

While Jim was still mulling over whether he wanted to go out for dinner or order room service, Molly had already lost her appetite.

She sat unmoving on the bed, a bag on each side of her, staring into the space in front of her just _thinking. _

She'd come with Jim to stop him from killing, committing crimes, and hurting people. But if she couldn't even stop him from threatening _one _person, then how could she possibly stop him from doing _worse?_

"What's _your_ problem?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow, when he finally noticed that Molly had neither said anything nor moved for the past five minutes.

She looked up at him where he'd stopped his pacing back and forth across the room.

_Should she say something…?_

"Oh." Jim laughed, suddenly, "You don't like that I was _mean_ to the poor kid in the museum today. You don't think he could take it the way _you_ can."

"He shouldn't have _had _to." Molly reasoned.

"I think you're just jealous." Jim suspected.

"I'm not." Molly denied.

"So, what then? You think _you _should be the only one I'm ever mean to?" Jim suggested, "The way _John_ was the only one Sherlock was ever really nice to?"

"_No,_ but that would be better than you being so cruel to everyone." Molly qualified.

Jim smiled.

"Ah, Molly you're such a martyr…" he sighed, "It's shame that martyrs always end up dead."

"And what about you?" Molly questioned, standing up to meet his eye, "You said you're going to let Sherlock kill you."

"I was never supposed to live this long in the first place." Jim shrugged, "Every moment I'm still breathing I become _less._ There's so much of me all over the world that I've become _cheap._ That's why I'm helping Sherlock get rid of me."

"That's stupid." Molly told him, frankly, "If you don't like how you are now, just change."

Oh, if only.

But Molly knew that Jim would never change—or, rather, he was a_lways _changing but always, always staying the same.

Jim chuckled appreciatively, assuming that Molly had been joking. When he realized that she hadn't, he took a breath than began again.

"Let me put it this way, Molly, darling…" Jim attempted, "fireworks are only beautiful because they explode—_boom_—and then they're gone. If they kept burning, then they'd just be constant flames. Just plain old _fires _and fires are nothing special, not _beautiful._ They're easy to make and they spread everywhere. And so they're worthless."

He looked at Molly expecting her to understand but, simple and naïve, the woman just shook her head.

"No, they're not." she stated, "Fires are what keep people warm."

And it was true, too, because Jim Moriarty would've burned out long ago if it wasn't for the plain and unspecial Molly Hooper keeping him warm.

* * *

When John and Lestrade returned to the commandeered fifth floor of the British Embassy, they were immediately met by Anthea and Moran in the middle of the room, empty save for the four of them.

"Doctor Watson, Mr. Lestrade—" Anthea started, only to be interrupted.

"There's no point in calling me 'doctor' anymore." John decided, "At least not while we're here."

Lestrade made no comment about John's words, while Anthea asked, "And what prompted this change?" with mild suspicion.

"I'm just not here to be a doctor." John answered, evenly.

"I see…" Anthea accepted (sort of), "And what about you, Mr. Lestrade, do you have any change in preferences as to what you'd like to be called?"

Before Lestrade could say 'no', Moran interjected with "You can talk about names later. Just tell them the plan."

"Alright." Anthea agreed, matter-of-factly, "We located the hotel the targets are staying at. Tomorrow, Mr. Moran will be on the roof across the street—"

"And _I'll _be up there with him to make sure we don't have a repeat of Afghanistan." John decided.

Moran groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Actually," Anthea corrected, "You will be on the ground with me, John, in front of the hotel. Mr. Lestrade will be with Mr. Moran on the roof as his spotter. He'll give the go ahead for Mr. Moran to shoot Jim, _nonlethally, _and when Jim gets hit, we secure him and _you_ make sure he doesn't die."

John gritted his teeth inside his mouth and clenched his fist slightly under the table; invisible expressions of his distaste for Anthea's plan and Lestrade smiled, _very faintly,_ in mild relief.

_Hopefully,_ John's plan to kill both Moriarty and Moran (then get shot and die) wouldn't work under these circumstances.

"We'll also have embassy employee arrive on the scene to control the panicking crowd—and the authorities, when they arrive—while we get Jim to the hospital." Anthea continued, "He'll be too injured to escape and from there we can transport him back to London via helicopter. Any questions?"

John, Lestrade and Moran shook their heads.

"Good." Anthea smiled, "We'll meet back here tomorrow morning, six, to commence with the plan."

* * *

**ACTUAL SPECULATION:**

…**sort of. **

**Inspired by something on the Sherlock section of the TVTropes website. **

**When there was that hanging dummy Sherlock says something along the lines of 'the Bow Street Runners missed everything' which meant nothing to me since I'm an ignorant American. But upon TVTropes explanation that the Bow Street Runners were a police force in London centuries ago, the clue "Bow" could be a reference to that, as well. **

**HUNGER is a reference to APPETITE, an Argentinian art gallery that ended up moving to China in 2011. **

**As for the Paladin Group, there is no information online about what happened to it after 1975 when Skorzeny died and some man named Dr. Gerhard Harmut Von Schubert. No info on who he was. **

**My best guess is the name was changed and/or it was absorbed into another company (or companies), as well as into various Neo-Nazi groups. It's probably still active in some capacity today. **

**The name "Paladin" comes from the knights of Charlemagne who ruled a united Europe. **

**The name "Alois" is a shorter version of "Aloysius". Aloysius Garcia is a character in the Sherlock Holmes's story 'The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge' which involved fictional dictators in fictional countries of South America. I thought the choice was appropriate. **

**The name comes from Louis (the name of Charlemagne's son), which comes from Ludwig, which means warrior. **

**What were the Paladins? Warriors. **

**Durando is another name in 'The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge', the real name of a character who used a fake name…I think. It means enduring.**

**And lastly, the last name "Vermeer"?**

**Just the Dutch form of Werner, a German name for the word guard. **

**I really like etymology, words and names. **

**Like a lot. **

**In case nobody noticed before or anything. **

_**Please review! **_


	24. Shooting

**Well basically, Argentina had two dictatorships. One while Peron was in exile and another after he died. **

**The first was a military junta that was anti-communist, anti-education and anti-Semitic. It caused a lot of protests and riots by lay people as well as kidnappings and murders by opposition groups and government supporters/groups. **

**The second one was called the National Reorganization Process and they set up concentration camps to send any opponents to or just killed them. **

**They also set up the Argentine Anticommunist Alliance, a death squad to take out their enemies and combat the Communist Peronists, the Montoneros, who kidnapped people and bombed the Nationalist Peronists. **

**The guy,** **José López Rega, who set up the AAA was a Freemason that was part of the secret group of Freemasons apparently ruled Italy from the 40's to the 70's, as well as other Latin American countries, called Propaganda Due or P2. **

**Rega was also an occultist. Occultism, Germanic Paganism, and the Hindu Caste System have also been adopted religiously by those who worship Hitler as a god and claim that the Aryan race was originally aliens from another planet, separate from humans. **

**On such woman was named Maximiani Portas a spy for the Nazis in India who wrote under the penname Savitri Devi Mukherji who believed that Hitler was an Avatar of Vishnu. Despite wanting to kill most or all humans on earth (since, they're aliens and not humans) she was a strong proponent of animal rights. **

**Fascists are very anti-communist and so the CIA asked for their help during the Cold War to kill communists, suspected communists and keep communist leaders like Fidel Castro, and the overthrown João Goulart of Brazil and Salvador Allende of Chile. **

**John Alexander McCone was CIA director during many of these coups and assassination attempts. He later went to work for ITT Corporation**_**(—more on that corporation next chapter). **_

**McCone was part of the Knights of Malta, some kind of European Catholic military order started in the Holy Roman Empire under Charlemagne. **

**(Remember the Paladins? They were knights of Charlemagne, too.) **

**Another Knight of Malta was Joseph Peter Grace Sr., son of the mayor of New York and head of a huge company in South America based in Peru called W. R. Grace and Company.**

**W. R. Grace and Company produces chemicals used to refine crude oil **_**(more on oil next chapter). **_

**It also does shipping and owned Pan American-Grace Airways until American Airlines bought it. **

**Joseph Peter Grace Jr. inherited the company and also worked for the Kennedy administration to improve US trading and communication with South America. **

**What do the Knights of Malta do? **

**They're a branch of the Catholic Church and they attend various meetings and organizations like the United Nations, the Council of Europe, the Latin Union, and the CTBTO Preparatory Commission, as well as have diplomatic relations with various countries, including Argentina.**

**So the largest centralized church in the world and high up members of corporations attend world government meetings. **

**Interesting. **

**That's basically the background relevantesque to these few chapters. **

**You can't make this stuff up, guys. It's hilarious. **

**I never want to be a teacher ever but if I had to be I'd definitely want to teach a class about all this drama all over the world with conspiracies.**

**I hope you like this chapter! **

* * *

The streets in Buenos Aires were wide (having been built after industrialization and the 'necessity' of cars) and over six lanes of the city's main avenue separated the highrise hotel building from the highrise apartment building across.

Luckily, Sebastian Moran had very good eyesight and was a very good shot.

He'd been set up on the roof of the apartment building since the darkness before dawn but just as the sun began to rise, that ex-cop Lestrade was up there with a yawn and a cup of coffee to 'spot' for him.

('Spot', in this particular situation meant 'supervise' (and 'supervise' was Anthea's polite way of implying Watson's directly stated "make sure we don't have a repeat of Afghanistan", '_Afghanistan'_ meaning shooting innocent civilians.)

Moran had very good eyesight and was a very good shot, and so did not_ need_ a 'spotter' (or a _supervisor,_ either—he could control himself and knew how to follow orders) but there Lestrade was, standing behind where he crouched by the roof's ledge and casting a shadow that darkened Moran's view.

"So…you're already in position, I see…" Lestrade began, awkwardly (and _cautious,_ too, trying to conceal his fear—and his _disgust_—of the military-trained killer), "…and you're just going to wait there until we see Moriarty…?"

"Yes." Moran affirmed, not turning around to look at him—not even _moving._

His eye was hovering over the scope of the sniper-rifle and his finger was hovering over the trigger.

"That could take hours." Lestrade reminded, evenly (now concealing the surprise—and the _taunt_—in his voice).

"Yes." Moran repeated,_ still_ not turning around to look at him and _still _not even moving.

And so all was still.

For the rest of the sunrise, Lestrade sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup and surveyed the cityscape below him (the tall hotel, then restaurants to each side, and some more apartment buildings down the street) as Moran kept his gaze focused on the front of the hotel, currently only attended-to by a single doorman.

Further down the sidewalk, a blond tourist (wearing sunglasses despite it only being early morning and a jacket despite it being warm out) sat on a bench, 'reading' a newspaper printed in Spanish. In the other direction, a brunette businesswoman typed on her smartphone while waiting for a cab that would never come.

Minutes felt like hours (due to inactivity as well as anticipation) and once Lestrade had finished his morning beverage, he began to get bored.

He pulled the binoculars he'd been given out of the pocket of his gray-uniform pants and put them up to his eyes. First he looked down at Anthea and then he looked over at John who was tapping his foot impatiently.

Lestrade turned his attention back to the Victorian stories of the hotel, starting from the bottom and continuing level by level to the top. All of the rectangular windows had black bars across them and most of them had their curtains closed.

He was glancing at each of the un-curtained windows in turn (all of them unoccupied) when he saw the curtains of a formerly-curtained window fly apart.

* * *

"Ah, good morning Buenos Aires!" Jim declared as he forced apart the deep-purple curtains violently to force violent orange sunlight into hotel room to startle the still-jetlagged Molly awake.

She flew up into a seated position at the sound of his shout, eyes opening wide to be accosted by this sunlight.

The black bars on the window cast long black shadows into the hotel room, painting it like a prison, like it was the light trapped in the dark—except it was the _light _that wasbreaking into this dark room.

Squinting at the sudden bright light, it took Molly a few moments to (fully wake up and then) notice that Jim naked and so exposing himself to a city that was _hopefully _still asleep at this hour.

"Jim, what are you doing?" she asked, groggily as she rubbed her eyes then offering, "…Come back to bed…" selflessly to spare the poor citizens of Buenos Aires such a sight.

"…_And good morning, Molly." _Jim added, snide but suggestive, spinning around to face her but not closing the curtains.

"Good morning…" Molly muttered unenthusiastically in return, then glancing over at the clock on the bedside table with eyes adjusting and _re-_adjusting to the contrasting amounts of light, "…it's not even eight yet. Have we really got to get up now?"

It was 7:48 AM on July 16th 2012 and by that date, Molly's sleep-schedule had been so disturbed that it was not even a _schedule _anymore.

"Well, maybe not _just _yet..." Jim considered, strolling back towards the bed and Molly.

"…Nevermind," she conceded distractedly, first looking at Jim then past him at the uncurtained window from out of which she could see the windows of the building across the street—and that could also see _her, _"I can get up now."

Jim stalled and so did Molly.

She wanted get out of bed to get ready, but didn't want to get out of bed until the curtains were drawn and she couldn't get out of bed to draw the curtains for the same reason she didn't want to get out of bed to close them.

Molly knew that _most likely_ nobody would be awake and up high enough to peer into this particular hotel room…

…but because _so many other_ impossibly improbable things had occurred in her life in the past two years, she didn't want to take the chance.

Molly eyed the uncurtained but barred window and then at Jim expectantly.

He simply shrugged, seemingly oblivious.

"I'll be in the shower, then." Jim said, continuing past the bed and her towards the bathroom.

Molly watched him go and then sighed, falling back to lying down and_ trying_ to sleep—this time with a pillow over her face to block out the light.

The increasing traffic sounds outside and the constant shrill of the shower were white noises…but when Jim began to sing _(badly)_ 'Don't Cry For Me Argentina' (she recognized it from the cover on 'Glee'), Molly gave up and got up.

Using the blankets (tucked tightly under the bed and so difficult to pull off of it) as robes, she went from the bed over to the barred window.

Briefly, she gazed outside now risen sun. Due to its brightness, she could only see the silhouettes of construction workers on the taller building across the wide avenue and was glad that she'd trusted her habitual caution to cover herself.

Then she closed the curtains.

Discarding the blankets and starting towards the bathroom, Molly thought she might try to quiet Jim down…

* * *

Silently and slowly, Lestrade lowered the binoculars from his eyes, still open but now staring blankly into space as he tried to erase snapshots from the scrapbook of his mind the way Sherlock had said he could 'delete' unnecessary information from his 'hard-drive'.

It wasn't working.

Moran remained motionless, still staring through the scope at the _quadruple_doors of the hotel across the street and down tens of stories and waiting patiently.

Every so often a car would drive down the avenue and the amount of cars on the road—as well as the amount of pedestrians on the sidewalk—was ever-increasing as it got later in the weekday morning.

It was going to be a crowded, busy, _long_ day.

* * *

Floor and tabletop lamps all turned on, the little room was now well-lit despite the window curtains being closed.

Jim tossed through the bag with his packed clothing, rejected items shooting across the room and landing on the floor or on the furniture as 'decoration', trying to find something "halfway decent" (as he had put it) to wear.

Still in her towel, Molly examined the clothes in her bag before taking out the pieces she wanted and making sure everything else was properly folded in her bag before travelling around the little hotel room, picking up Jim's discarded clothing and folding that to.

By the time she had replaced Jim's re-folded clothes into his, Jim had finally chosen what to wear and was adding the 'finishing touches' to his outfit while admiring himself in the floor-length mirror across from the bed where the bags lay open.

In the reflection, Jim could see Molly standing there, staring at him with the usual dismay on her face.

He smirked at her.

Her widened eyes narrowed and her widened mouth moved to form words.

"What the…Jim, that is_ not_ funny." Molly exclaimed, "You can't go out wearing that!"

"Why not?" Jim laughed, turning around to face her and exaggeratedly shrugging his arms—one of which sported a makeshift armband with an infamous (and formerly religious) insignia overt the rolled-up sleeve, "If your Prince Harry can do it, why can't _I?..._The Durandos'll appreciate it."

"Well_, I don't."_ Molly groaned, shaking her head. _"Please_…just take it off."

She wondered where Jim had gotten such an 'accessory' until deciding from the symbols shaky appearance that he'd drawn it himself on a napkin stolen from the restaurant they'd eaten in last night.

How long had Jim been planning this joke (which was meant for _her,_ not Alois or the mysterious Durandos, since he must have realized she'd never let him leave the hotel room with the armband on)?

…and, because it was still only the morning, what _else_ _(worse)_ did he have planned for the rest of the day?

Jim obliged Molly's request, discarding the item of offense in the trashbin and then leaning against the dresser beside it to watch Molly as she dressed.

"This _is_ a business trip, remember?" he reminded, scoffing at her attire, "Do try to look nice."

Molly sighed, exchanging her jeans for a teal skirt that it was warm enough to wear enough to wear (while much of the rest of the country was having winter) and matched well enough with her square-collared blouse.

Now that Jim and Molly had both approved eachother's outfits, it was time to head out.

Downstairs in the chapel-like hotel lobby, Jim stopped and caught Molly by the hand as they passed the front desk, pulling her from walking any further.

"We're going out for breakfast before our meeting with the 'Axis Powers'." Jim told her, "Go out and get us a cab while I get directions to a good place."

"Okay." Molly agreed, then continuing past the front desk and out one of the many front doors.

* * *

"Here we go…" Moran muttered, mostly to himself.

Upon hearing the quiet words, Lestrade quickly returned his binoculars to his eyes and stared down at the distant hotel entrance.

The lone doorman had been joined by fellow doormen in matching red uniforms, as well as the continuous herd of pedestrians passing them on the sidewalk and the continuous swarm of bee-colored taxis, picking up and returning passengers to their hive, the hotel.

Amongst this mass of moving people, Molly emerged from the third door, glancing around at the motion as if intimidated before finally approaching a doorman once he was finished helping other hotel guests into a taxi.

"Wait, it's just Molly!" Lestrade exclaimed, "Don't shoot!"

"I wasn't going to." Moran responded, again in a mutter.

Lestrade didn't reply, instead continuing to watch Molly (every so often glancing back at the doors to the hotel) converse with the doorman who then signaled to a cab that was pulling up to the curb. The doorman said something to Molly, who nodded and then went back into the hotel.

* * *

Molly found Jim still chatting with the now laughing concierge at the desk, in broken and silly-sounding Spanglish. She had to step around the short (but growing) line of slightly annoyed families waiting to talk to the uniformed woman, murmuring hurried apologies she didn't know if they could understand.

She waited, fidgeting, for a few moments before finally tapping Jim on shoulder. Without turning to look at her, he held up a finger to tell her to wait.

Molly glanced back at the people behind her apologetically, then looked back at Jim.

"Please, Jim, hurry up." she urged, frustrated, "The cab's waiting for us."

Jim thanked the concierge for the directions and complementary map of Buenos Aires that he'd been provided before turning away from the desk and starting towards Molly, opening and examining the smooth folded paper.

Once she saw that he was coming, she brisked ahead, back in the direction of the doors and the taxi waiting outside. Jim followed her, face hidden behind the map, at a very leisurely pace and so Molly again stopped to wait for him, halfway through the door she was holding open.

The doorman soon leaped over to do that task for her, causing Molly to step out his way and out the doorway, leaving it empty for Jim to pass through.

Through it, Jim could see the taxi stalling outside in front of another couple also waiting for a cab but unable to take that one because it was already assigned to him and Molly.

Luckily for that couple, a second cab pulled up next to the first and a second doorman jogged up to open its doors, releasing the current passengers so that new ones could enter.

As those passengers started towards the hotel, multiple doormen appeared to help carry their suitcases on metal trollies.

Meanwhile, the other couple, escorted by a third doorman, strode towards that cab past the one meant for Jim and Molly.

Jim walked through the door.

* * *

Through binoculars, Lestrade saw Molly again, now with a figure (he guessed was Moriarty) whose features were obscured by a huge square piece of paper (he guessed was a map).

The two maneuvered amongst the complex and chaotic dance of people in front of the hotel, all moving at different speeds and in different directions, some alone and some in groups of two, three or four.

The doorman was in front of them, leading them, towards the open door of a taxi.

And when Moriarty finally half-lowered and half-refolded the paper, when Molly pushed it down so she could see his face, he pulled her uncomfortably—to _Lestrade,_ at least—close to (and also slightly in front of) him as they approached the vehicle.

Lestrade didn't care how good Moran's eyesight or aim was, there was _no way_ anyone would be able to locate Jim and shoot him—and_ only_ him—without firing more than one bullet and without hitting any innocent bystanders (or Molly).

"Don't do it, Moran." Lestrade cautioned, binoculars still up to his eyes and eyes still trained on the hotel doors across the street, "You don't have a clear line of sight."

"I'll be the judge of that." Moran stated, eye still up to the rifle scope and scope still trained on the hotel doors across the street.

"Actually, I think Anthea made_ me_ the judge of that." Lestrade recalled.

"You don't have any experience with this." Moran countered, "Just let me do my job—"

"You can't take the shot!" Lestrade declared, finally turning to him, "There are too many people down there and Moriarty's moving around too much. I'm telling you, if you shoot you won't hit him."

"I won't hit him if _you _keep distracting me!" Moran barked, "Shut up and let me concentrate!"

The doorman had stopped to allow pedestrians and hotel guests to pass, but Moriarty was pushing through the family of four, the doormen and their trollies of luggage. Molly had also stopped and seemed to be addressing (apologizing to?) these people but Moriarty once again

"Moriarty must be on to us," Lestrade continued, looking back down at the hotel and then back over at Moran again, "He must've figured out we're up here somehow and so left at the busiest time."

"It doesn't matter." Moran insisted, calmly, "I can hit him."

"Look at him!" Lestrade shouted, "He's using Molly and those people as human shields! If you shoot now, you'll hit one of them!"

Moran opened his mouth to disagree but Lestrade moved towards him as if he was either going to pull him away from the gun or the gun away from him—both of which would be very difficult to do; the gun being secured on tripod and Moran being Moran.

"Don't come any closer." Moran warned, rising to preempt whatever Lestrade might've taken and giving him a threatening look.

Lestrade stopped moving but kept talking, "This is just what Moriarty wants. You shooting at him and hitting some random person instead—he'll escape in the confusion like he always does."

"He'll escape if I don't shoot him now." Moran returned, then slowly returning to his rifle, still watching Lestrade for any sudden movements.

He looked through the scope and Lestrade looked through his binoculars.

…just in time to see Moriarty and Molly get into the waiting taxi which drove away from the hotel curb to join the dense traffic flow of the avenue.

"Damn it." Moran growled through gritted teeth, shaking his head and then standing back up to add, "This is _your _fault, Lestrade."

Lestrade was still gazing through the binoculars—until Moran knocked them out of his hands in anger.

_(Well, why the hell not?_ Neither his father, nor his military commanders, nor Porlock, nor James, nor Mycroft, nor Anthea were around to see. Some situations—and some _people _(usually Jim but this time Lestrade)—didn't _deserve_ composure.)

"What's wrong with you!?" Lestrade shouted, reaching for his gun to defend himself but not actually raising it.

The binoculars clattered down to the concrete rooftop which John stared up at from the sidewalk as he got up from the bench, opening his arms in a confused and angry gesture that meant _'what the hell just happened here?!'. _

Thinking the exact same thing, Anthea was already typing her texts to Moran and Lestrade.

* * *

Molly was confused when the taxi driver didn't take them to the restaurant that Jim had taken ten minutes to get directions to from the pretty hotel concierge in the red uniform and instead took his two passengers straight to the National Museum of Fine Arts.

"I wasn't hungry." was Jim's only explanation as they exited the vehicle in front of the same large building that they'd visited the afternoon before.

Molly was, but she didn't say so and just followed Jim up the steps until they stood under the pillars, larger than treetrunks, by the locked doors of the museum.

"It's not even open yet." Molly said, already sitting down (ankles crossed since she was in a skirt) on the stone steps, "Are we just going to wait here?"

"Patience, love." Jim chided, to which Molly rolled her eyes and hugged her growling stomach.

"…what if this doesn't work?" she inquired, "what if they don't want to talk to us, or they don't let us see the old man or he doesn't have the painting you need?"

"Then we'll have to call 'Tony' Ricoletti and his lovely wife." Jim suggested, "Get them to forge me another 'Lost Vermeer'

"But didn't you, um, _shoot_ him?" Molly recalled, "He and four other men threatened me in the morgue. They were looking for _you."_

"Yeah…sorry 'bout that…." Jim apologized, nonchalantly, shoving his hands into his pockets and starting to pace.

"Why does almost everyone you work with end up wanting to kill you?" Molly asked, more rhetorically than anything because she already knew the answer.

_(Because Jim was Jim.) _

"Dunno, actually…" Jim answered, shrugging as he moved to stand on the other side of her, "but so far none of them have succeeded."

"_So far_…" Molly repeated, sighing morbidly and holding her chin in her hands, "…How can we be sure it's safe, anyway, seeing the Durandos? You said they have guns and both your friends said that they were angry at you yesterday."

"It'll be fine." Jim dismissed, stopping as he pulled his hand out of his pocket to wave away her concern and a gun along with it.

Molly quickly scooted away from him (and the gun, which had been waved in her direction) along the stone.

"Oh." She accepted, taking a breath, then adding, "So…when'd you get that?" as conversationally as she could.

She didn't remember a_ gun _as one of the 'accessories' Jim had put on while they were getting dressed earlier that morning.

"_You_ smuggled into the country for me." Jim chuckled, returning the weapon to his pocket, "Thanks for that, by the way."

So the gun was in her bag the whole time? Then maybe Jim's Nazi armband joke had really just been a distraction from that so he could leave the hotel room with it.

"You're welcome…" Molly grumbled, folding her arms as Jim continued to laugh at her, then asking, "…where is your fr—the tour guide from yesterday, Eloise?" (She rephrased as she doubted, from their previous behavior, that Jim and Alois were still 'friends'.)

"_Alois." _Jim corrected, "Although, not anymore."

"Well, he said to meet him here today but he didn't say _when."_ Molly recounted, "And he didn't say what would happen with the Durandos when we got here. How do we know he even talked to them?"

"You saw how scared of me he was." Jim recounted, with a snort, "Of course he did what I asked him to. And if he didn't, I'll make him the moment he shows up for work. He can be our guide at gunpoint and take us through the jungle to locate his elusive and mysterious parents."

And seeing Molly's frown Jim added, "…Oh don't look at me like that. Sometimes means to an end are, well, _mean._ Besides, it's not like I _hurt_ him. You're scared of me, too, Molly. Is it really allthatbad?"

"_Sometimes."_ Molly admitted,_ almost _snarkily.

Jim rolled his eyes amusedly then went back to wandering the area around the museum entrance.

At 8:32 a black remis (remises being the equivalent of the towncars (although not an actual brand) for hire (or expropriated for government use) driving around London) pulled up in front of them and the teenager in the backseat got out, holding open the door.

He was more formally dressed than Jim (in khakis and shirt _not_ tucked-in) was today, but his black clothing resembled a military uniform (without any sort of emblem, though) more than a suit and clashed strikingly with his red mohawk.

"Jim Moriarty." He said, pronouncing the 'J' as an 'H', "Come with me."

Jim and Molly exchanged a glance (amused on Jim's part and bemused on Molly's) and then looked back at the strange-looking teenager.

Jim started down the stone steps towards the vehicle, Molly stood up and started to follow him.

"No." the teenager restricted, raising a hand to Molly and then pointing to Jim, "Only him."

"Why?" Molly demanded.

"Los Durandos only want Jim Moriarty." The teenager stated, "No extran—um…_strange?" _

A laugh burst out of Jim at the incorrect English vocabulary causing both Molly and the teenager to turn to him in question.

"He means 'strangers'." Jim explained to Molly, "The Durandos don't like _strangers_…but I'm sure they wouldn't mind some_ strange_ every once in a while, though, who doesn't?"

"Come now." The teenager instructed, gesturing to the open door of the black car.

Through that door and from the angle she stood, Molly was able to see two other young men (about the same age of the teenager) in the front seat wearing matching unofficial uniforms and sporting matching bald heads—one of which was tattooed down to the neck continuing beneath clothing, as well.

She was too far away from the other teenagers and it was too dark in the vehicle to tell what the tattoos were of but even Molly was able to 'deduce' that all three of these boys were probably skinheads or Neo-Nazis.

"Do you even know who these people are?" Molly asked Jim, nervously glancing back and forth at Jim and the teenager, "Don't go with them."

"I told you, it'll be fine." Jim consoled, unworried but excited as ever, _casually _placing a hand inside a particular pants pockets.

But Molly was _not _consoled.

"Jim, I really don't think you should be—" she cautioned but was silenced with an abrupt kiss Jim had leaped over to her to give.

When Jim's lips released hers, he turned and trotted down towards the teenager.

Molly stood there and watched from the top of the steps as her boyfriend got into the back of the black car with the shady looking teenagers. When they were gone, she noticed the complementary map blowing in the traffic-generated wind along the pavement.

She trotted down the stairs and then bent to pick it up before it waltzed into the road.

* * *

After arguing the entire car ride over (John blamed Moran for not shooting Jim, Moran blamed Lestrade, Lestrade blamed Moriarty for knowing they were there)…

…Anthea (driving so the men wouldn't argue over who was going to drive), Moran (next to her because he was angry at Lestrade and John was angry at him), John and Lestrade (in the back seats)…

…arrived across the street from the art museum only to witness Jim Moriarty riding away in a limo, leaving Molly behind.

_Not again! _

Anthea had used her smartphone to trace Molly's mobilephone to this location, and now that Molly and Jim had separated the reluctant allies no way to track Jim without physically following him.

"Moriarty definitely knows we're after him." Lestrade asserted, watching the black vehicle merge from the curbside into the heavy traffic.

"It doesn't matter." John declared, "We've got to follow him."

"We will." Anthea agreed, already turning the steering-wheel back towards the street in the direction Jim had been taken.

"Not _you."_ Moran decided, looking back at Lestrade, "You messed me up the first time. If you care so much about the Hooper woman, you can stay here and follow her."

Opening his mouth in offense, Lestrade looked over to Anthea and John for support, but the two's expressions offered allegiance to Moran instead, and so he scoffed in grudging concession.

"Fine, then. I think I will. "

Lestrade unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door beside him and got out of the rental car that he then watched drive away.

Once it was gone, he shoved his hands into his bulky jacket pockets and then crossed the many-laned street, walking straight towards Molly.

* * *

The roads got smaller and smaller until they were made only out of dirt that soon became mud, while the dense concentration of buildings and people were replaced by dense forest and isolation.

In the distance there was the redbrown estuary that bled out into the Uruguay and Parana rivers and branched inland into the smaller ones that ran across the landscape like veins.

Closer was the fenced compound (almost invisible through all the trees) risen up out of the grassy marsh by long wooden poles, white-painted strong and finished logs made up the structures (most of them average-sized cabins, then some smaller for storage, and finally one large house in the center) that rested ontop of a boardwalk.

The black car stopped while the ground was still solid, letting Jim and his teenaged escort out.

In front of him, Jim could see the gun half-inside the belted waistband of the teenager's black pants, bouncing up and down as they moved.

_(Tsk, tsk stupid boy_—the gun was visible _and_ accessible to the stranger he let walk behind him.)

Jim shook his head, lamenting the state of the criminal youth.

The teenager escorted Jim across the grassland which, after a while, started to sink beneath their feet as they approached the small lake of runoff from the connected river.

Along that river was the wooden skeleton of a watermill, either long decommission or never completed and put to use in the first place. It revolved slowly in the all-but still water, moaning in the otherwise silent forest.

Later, when they reached the water's edge, he asked, "Are there sharks in the moat?" and then, "There a drawbridge to the castle or something?" (both of which received no response).

Jim forgave the boy for his the lack of laughter, attributing it to a language-barrier, and followed him onto the boardwalk bridge that led to the rest of the compound.

They stopped in front of the gate where a fourth teenager in black uniform stood guard, gun in hand, by the pointy-log fence.

He conversed with his mohawked friend quickly in Spanish before opening the gate and allowing him and Jim to enter.

The boards were old, some starting to rot and some already having been rotting for a long time.

They creaked under Jim's footsteps but the teenager seemed to know which sections of wood to avoid and so Jim soon mimicked his path exactly (but not before having a bit more fun with the creaking boards) on their way to the largest cabin.

The cabins were as old as the boards, decaying as their once prestige and bright white paint browned and chipped with age.

The teenager knocked on the door which was immediately opened by a late middle-aged couple with silvering blond hair dressed simply and traditionally in old (or handmade) clothing.

They stepped out, forcing Jim and the teenager to step backwards, and closed the dark wooden doubledoors behind them.

"Gracias, Francisco." The woman addressed the teenager, who nodded and walked back down the boardwalk to continue his conversation with his friend at the front gates.

Jim was left eyeing the man and woman wryly, noting the features in both of them that had cooperated to create their son Alois (or whatever he'd changed his name to now), the disobedient and dissenting purebred.

(Of course, Alois still wasn't _'perfect'_—he hadn't grown as tall as either of his parents, due to poor early childhood nutrition.)

"Mr. Moriarty," the man began, carefully, "We know why you are here and I'll tell you now that the so called 'old man' that you're looking for is dead and has been for many years. You've come here for nothing."

Both the woman and man had ambiguous accents but spoke fluent English, like Alois.

"And you sent a car to pick me up and bring me here to your secret hideout in the swamp...to tell me _that?"_ Jim tested, raising an eyebrow, "You must be very lonely and very bored. Perhaps you _do_ need some strange…"

"You're the fourth person who's come here to confront us, you people won't leave us alone and just let this issue die."The man declared, sharply, "Tell me who told you the 'old man' was alive. Was it that stupid American, Amberley? Or the Czech woman he spread his ridiculous conspiracies to? Whatever they told you was a lie.

"Ben!" The woman hissed at her husband, in an attempt to calm him.

Jim chuckled.

"_They_ didn't tell me anything." he said, "But thank _you_ for telling me that they _'know too much'_—care to share about what?"

The man opened his mouth to retort, however his wife spoke first.

"We'll tell you whatever you want to know—give you whatever you want," she promised, urgently, "…if you tell us where our son is!"

Jim blinked in surprised but then continued his laughter.

"You mean you don't know?" he questioned.

"How can we?" the woman returned, "He could be anywhere in the world with that art group."

"But obviously _you_ got in contact with him so you know where he is." The man added.

"Wait, so you thought—" Jim paused to snicker, "You've got friends in the government and the Hitler Youth running around and _none_ of you figured out that your prodigal son never even left the city?"

"Alois is in Buenos Aires?!" the woman exclaimed, "Where?!"

"I tell you what you want to know—when you give me what I want." Jim conditioned, paraphrasing her earlier promise, "The old man dead but _art_ doesn't die and I want the art he was copying from. I don't care if they're_ buried_ with him, you're digging them up them for me."

"We don't have the originals, we never did." The man informed, "Some of them were sold, some of them were given to various aristocrats or government and military leaders, some of them were donated to museums—"

"Who was the one distributing them, then?" Jim asked, "Who was the one in possession of them in the first place?"

"Many people." The woman answered, unspecifically, "Our grandparents, parents and others like them traded the paintings and other artifacts for safe passage into this country. The 'old man', the painter, was one of them. At first he only copied the paintings to replace the ones they had to give up, so we could preserve our culture and retain ownership of it."

Jim had to smirk at that unintentionally-ironic explanation.

Much of Nazi had been stolen, so it wasn't their culture to begin with, and trading it in order to leave their homeland wasn't retaining ownership of it, either.

Still, it was the perfect metaphor: old European art forged in South America, just like defeated Nazi society copied in Argentina.

And Jim had never understood having pride in one's culture, rather than one's own accomplishments—_except,_ of course, for the fact that he liked to remind the world he was Irish on a daily basis.

(Jim had never understood why hypocrisy should apply to him, instead of just everyone else.)

"We only started selling the paintings after he died," the woman concluded "out of respect to him—and our own parents. He died in the 1980's when Alois was a little boy, so anyone who told you he was alive—or that others of his generation are here—is a _liar."_

"And we only ever sold the forgeries because we needed the money." The man followed-up, "The farms failed and the government that had been supporting us lost power. Life is hard here and very expensive. So many of our people finally left—including our son. My wife and I are the only ones who still live here now, and we live the life of a monk."

"And that's a _disgrace."_ The woman spat, "Despite having so many enemies, our ancestors built this community with their own sweat as a testament to the purity and endurance of our great people," she gestured around at the surrounding compound and its surrounding swamp, all mud and decay, "And now their children have abandoned it! All except _us." _

Her husband scoffed, caustic and in disgust.

"Don't try to show off for this _outsider."_ He countered, speaking first to his wife (who folded her arms in protest) and then turning to explain to Jim, "'Our great people' were kept here as a living diorama—an experiment of a model Aryan community that _failed. _They owned us, owned the old man. They wanted to maintain an ideal history but that past was already gone and it was never perfect."

"And _'they'_ are?" Jim ventured.

"That we cannot tell you." The man stated, matter-of-factly and _almost_ smiling, "_They_ may be dead but they have friends still living."

"Ooh, so a _secret society,_ then?" Jim intrigued, in exaggerated shock, "But which one..? I'm assuming not the Zionists."

The man snorted.

"That sounds like more of Amberley's _imaginative _suspicions." He said, "Don't tell me _you're_ as much of a fool as he is. It's because of Amberley that we had to give the forgery to that Czech woman. She came here three years ago to seek revenge for something _we're_ not even responsible for."

"Her giant monstrosity attacked the guard we had at the time—_and my son_." The woman added, "We've had to increase security ever since. You were right to punish her for forcing herself into our operation but you should have exposed him as well. He was the one who told her about this place and told her that we were the descendants of Nazi leaders, that some of those leaders were still alive here—that was not true."

"You know, I really don't care about something as trivial as '_truth'."_ Jim snorted, "But what I do care about is the painting and all these stories aren't helping me get that. No more _excuses,_ Senores Durandos. You send your prematurely-bald boys to wherever real Lost Vermeer's stashed and have them fetch it for me, now, or else I'll send the Israelis a travel brochure for a scenic swamp resort in Argentina."

"'Lost Vermeer'?" the woman repeated in surprise, "You want _that?"_

"Yes, what else would I want?" Jim stated the obvious, impatiently, "Didn't Alois tell you that when he called you?"

"Alois never called us." The woman said, "He_ couldn't_ have. There are no lines out this far."

"Um, mobiles…" Jim condescended, brandishing his cellphone from his pocket for the confused Durandos to see.

They stared at the strange black device, blankly. The top provided a dark reflection, perhaps it was some kind of mirror…

Jim sighed, rolling his eyes and returning the phone to his other pocket.

"We were told by our guards that a former guard had been contacted by Alois." The woman continued, "That's how the message was delivered."

"How efficient." Jim deadpanned, "...Now why were you surprised about the Lost Vermeer?"

"Follow us and see." The man replied, cordially.

* * *

Molly continued to stand in front of the art museum, on the top step, waiting for Alois to arrive for work so she could ask him what was going on.

And if Alois never arrived, or if Jim never returned, within the hour then Molly would have to (despite the awkwardness and embarrassment) call Sherlock and ask him for help.

But before any of those things occurred, Molly's eyes widened in shock when she saw someone who was supposed to be a hemisphere away stomping across the busy street (cars honking and swerving around him) towards her.

Gregory Lestrade.

_What the heck was he doing here?!_

...there, of course, was only one answer to that question.

(Jim Moriarty.)

Molly gulped, considered making a run for it while Lestrade was still in the road, but then walked down the steps to meet him on the sidewalk when he reached it.

"Molly." He greeted, evenly.

"Greg." She returned, matching his tone.

They eyed each other during a short (and definitely awkward) silence, unsure of what to say next. At the same moment, they both opened their mouths to talk but Molly shut hers first, politely allowing Lestrade to speak.

He sighed instead, before then beginning.

"No more lies, Molly. I know you're here with Moriarty and I know your…_with_ him. I'm not going to judge you for that and I doubt I convince you to leave him. I just…I just want to know _why._ Why would you throw your life away for that—I just want an explanation. Can you give me that at least?"

Now Molly sighed, shaking her head ashamedly.

"…I know you won't believe me and it's not an excuse but I was—I am—trying to stop him. And it's working too, a bit, I got him to stop killing and he did…as far as I know…"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"'_As far as you know'?_ Really, do you honestly think he would ever—_could _ever stop? That _you'd_ be able to stop him?"

His words were skeptical but watered-down, as if Molly wouldn't be able to handle their true implications and meanings if spoken directly_—and_ as if she wouldn't be able to understand them if not spoken directly.

But she _was,_ and she _did._

Molly was so weak, so unimportant, so _stupid_…what could she possibly do to influence the evil criminal mastermind Moriarty? She was just such a _naïve little girl_ that she'd been taken in by his spell and actually believed she was as powerful to him as he was to her, to the whole world.

…and for the first time, Molly didn't care.

She really, truly, totally _just didn't care._

If it was the _truth,_ and Molly was unable to stop Jim, then she would die trying to change it.

(After all, if she was _already_ in danger of getting killed by Jim and everything between them was a lie, then trying to stop him wouldn't make things any _worse.)_

And if it _wasn't _the truth…well, then, Molly was right and it didn't matter what anyone else said.

Either way, she was just going to keep doing what she was doing.

"Yes." Molly said, with renewed resolve, "I do."

And while Lestrade contemplated how to respond to that, Molly continued.

"So now that we've, um, settled that, I'll tell you what I know. I know that you wouldn't have come all the way here alone, that you were working with John back in London, since he started working at that hospital to spy on me, so he's probably here with you, and the uniform you're wearing is from that security firm so they're probably the ones who told you everything and brought you here. How many more of them are here and why are _they_ chasing Jim?"

Molly's 'deduction' was only partially correct, but Lestrade decided against correcting her as telling her that there were actually only four people pursuing Moriarty instead of an entire private military company would only _strengthen_ her already surprisingly high level of confidence.

"If you surrender now I can guarantee your safety—and your freedom." Lestrade offered, "We're going to catch Moriarty this time and when we do I don't want you to get caught in the middle. You have to stop helping him or I won't be able to protect you and you might get _hurt."_

His voice _sounded_ concerned and cautionary, but his words were as much a threat as they were 'friendly advice'.

It reminded Molly of the way Mycroft and Anthea spoke to everyone—and the way Sherlock had spoken to her the night he'd come to her flat instead of Jim.

_Everyone was so much more alike than they realized…_

"Jim isn't here to hurt anyone or cause any trouble." Molly stated, "You're coming after him for no reason!"

Lestrade snorted at her statement, but then returned to seriousness.

"Even if that _was_ true, Moriarty still has to answer for what he's done." He countered, "He's harmed so many and he will never stop until he's in prison—or in the ground."

"But you don't understand!" Molly insisted, "The only reason Jim is even here is because—"

She paused when she remembered that Lestrade and John (presumably) didn't know that Sherlock was actually alive and so explaining that Sherlock was the one who'd hired Jim to go to Argentina would reveal that information.

…_oh well._

Sherlock had wanted to protect them by keep his survival a secret but Molly knew that both Lestrade and John were very capable of protecting themselves, especially if they'd traveled to a foreign country to track down a dangerous criminal—who might just die if Molly didn't explain that he was working on behalf of Sherlock now.

"Because why?" Lestrade demanded, expectantly.

"Because Sherlock asked him to." Molly told him.

"I'm not stupid, Molly, that Richard Brook bullshit isn't going to fool me." Lestrade dismissed, "And if you actually believe that—"

"No, I don't, that's not what I meant!" Molly countered, "I'm trying to tell you that Sherlock's alive. He faked his death and now he and Jim are working together—"

"Hold on, what?!"

"Sherlock faked his death. He's the one who hired Jim—"

"No. No way. I don't believe you."

"I wouldn't lie about this, Greg!"

"I don't think there's _anything _you wouldn't lie about to save that insane killer who brainwashed you. You've been lying to me, and John for months! Sherlock too and he died in part because of it."

"I'm telling the truth, I swear! And Jim didn't brainwash me! I know that the things he's done are wrong—"

"Then why are you f—sleeping with him?! And don't tell me it's because you think you can 'change' him."

"I don't, I just…Why are we arguing about this now? Where's John and whoever else you came here with?"

"They went after your 'boyfriend'. Hopefully they've caught him by now…"

Lestrade trailed off when he suddenly remembered John's plan to kill Moriarty on sight which would mostly likely get him killed by Anthea and Moran who wanted to capture him alive.

The failed shooting, its following argument and then Molly had all temporarily distracted him from that possibility—_which could have been occurring at that very moment_!

"Do you know where Moriarty went?" Lestrade asked, "Why didn't you go with him?"

He wondered if leaving Molly behind was supposed have been a diversion for the entire team.

"He went to get the real Lost Vermeer from an old man because Sherlock asked him to." Molly answered.

"_Where?"_ Lestrade insisted.

"…I don't know." Molly admitted, "The people just sent a car for him and only him—they didn't want strangers coming to their house. All I know is that it's somewhere by the River Plate."

"We have to find it." Lestrade decided, "Now."

"…why?" Molly inquired, nervously, because she knew that if Lestrade suddenly wanted to work with her right after being so angry at and disgusted with her then he must have had a very good reason—and that very good reason was probably _not _very good.

'Not very good' in this situation (and in most) meant Jim Moriarty.

"Because Moran and that woman from the government want to bring Moriarty in alive…" Lestrade explained, in a regretful sigh, "…but John doesn't."

So Anthea and Moran were in Buenos Aires too?!

Molly wasn't surprised that they'd followed Jim and her, but the fact that they were working with Lestrade and John as well as the same private military firm that had fired Moran and stormed Mycroft's secret prison only three weeks before.

If the government suddenly wanted to work with that company right after being robbed and becoming enemies with it then it must have had a very good reason—and that very good reason was probably not very good.

And again, that reason was Jim Moriarty.

"That's…not good." was all Molly could comment in response, sensing and then absorbing the deadly implications of the statement.

(And then imagining the impending shootout that left everyone involved dead.)

Lestrade nodded, solemnly, in agreement.

"So you understand why we need to find out where they are and get there." He reiterated.

"If we work together, maybe we can save them both." Molly agreed.

And then they saw Alois, dressed in his light blue uniform and on his way to work, walking down the sidewalk towards the museum.

* * *

The Durandos led Jim back down the boardwalk, to one of the sheds with peeling paint.

Inside, under the faint light of a single flickering bulb, they showed Jim the rows of unframed canvases leaning against eachother like fallen dominos.

The ones in the back were blank, but the ones in the front all looked very familiar.

(Or, exactly like to the forged 'Lost Vermeer' back in London. )

Jim squatted to flip through the first three before standing back up and saying, "I didn't realize you Durandos had been mass producing. Welcome to the modern age."

"When the Czech woman came, she demanded reparations for the damage done to _her _people during what you call the Second World War." The man recounted, "My son told her we didn't have any money but I told her she could a have a forgery to sell so she would leave."

"Yes, I remember dear Ally was the one who referred Mrs. Wenceslas to my Consulting Criminal services." Jim confirmed, "I did wonder how he knew the Bohemian babe."

The Durandos were suddenly made uncomfortable by Jim calling a woman who was roughly their age (late fifties) a 'babe'.

They stood in awkward silence as Jim, smirking, continued, "She bought a failing modern art gallery and held the auction in a private showing of the painting there. I sent a few associates over to bid high and drive up the price."

"We know." The man agreed, "…once the painting was sold, Mrs. Wenceslas was going to hire someone to steal it from the buyer who's information she'd have on file. Then we'd be able to sell all these identical forgeries on the black market for the same amount that original forgery sold for—or _more._ Our financial troubles would've ceased."

"You know, I really don't appreciate you all going behind my back like that." Jim commented, "What good is a consulting criminal if you don't consult him?…_Still,_ I do have to admire the _deviousness_ of that plan. Runs in the family, doesn't it?"

"It was Alois's idea, actually." The woman informed, "You may have treated him like he was stupid, but my son is brilliant when he chooses to be."

"Oh, well." Jim shrugged, "He was prettier when he was blond."

"So you _have _seen him recently!" The woman cried, "Where is he?!"

"_Ah-ah-ah."_ Jim prevented, wagging a finger, _"I told you,_ I won't tell you where your son is until you give me what I want."

"What you want is right there," the man reminded, pointing at the forgeries in storage, "Just take one—take them all, if you want! We have no use for them now."

"Don't mind if I do…" Jim began, reaching for the nearest forgery.

"No." the woman countered, slapping his hand away, "First you tell me where my son is."

Jim retracted his hand into a wave of mock deference and smiled.

"Of course."

* * *

Anthea stopped the rental car (which had been following the black remis for miles, now at a long distance as they were the only two vehicles on the rural road) when the pavement beneath its tires dissolved to muddy dirt.

"Why did we stop?" John asked from the backseat, the annoyance still audible in his voice despite the neutral question.

"Because we don't know where that road leads." Anthea explained, turning of the engine with a turn of the key, "…or what's waiting for us at the end of it."

Before them stood thousands of towering trees, shoulder to shoulder like soldiers but organically dispersed and hidden amongst themselves and other plants like insurgents in a crowded city.

Anthea stepped out of the rental car first, followed by Moran and John. The muggy air greeted them and they could smell the nearby water even though they couldn't see it.

"We should've drove past them and then cut them off." Moran suggested—after the fact, in reference to the black limo that had disappeared into the woods.

"That never works." John dismissed, "As soon as they see us behind them, they turn around and start shooting. Then it's a game of chicken, either you get shot or you crash. Sometimes both."

Grass, tall as if it was practicing to be trees, surrounded them with the forest in the distance on one side and the city in the distance on the other.

"We need a new plan then." Moran stated the obvious.

"I'm hacking into the computer system of car service that limo belonged to." Anthea informed, speaking to John and Moran but looking at her phone, "Assuming isn't stolen, I can look up who hired it as well as its GPS coordinates."

"Okay." John and Moran accepted.

"…the car wasn't stolen, it was _bought."_ Anthea told them, a minute later, lowering the smartphone, "And the anonymous buyer must've disabled the chip."

She sighed in complaint.

"Looks like we might not need that after all." Moran said, staring down the dirt road that the black remis was now driving back towards them on.

"Why would it be coming back so soon?" Anthea commented, "Either Jim figured out we followed him or he's not inside."

"So?" Moran replied, pulling out a handgun from the pocket of his uncomfortably thick (especially in the subtropical climate) jacket, "If he's not in there, the people who are can take us to him."

"…or they can take us to the wrong place while Moriarty escapes." John evaluated, "_Again."_

"Well, do you have any other ideas then, John?" Anthea questioned urgently, then glancing quickly and demonstratively over at the limo getting closer.

"Actually," John said, _almost_ smiling, "I do."

* * *

Alois spun on his heels and hurried back the way he'd come the moment that he saw Jim Moriarty(or whatever that insane criminal's real name was)'s girlfriend(?) stand up from the steps in front of the Museum of Fine Arts where she'd been apparently been sitting and waiting for him.

He would've thought that it would be whoever his parents—no, the Durandos—had sent to pick up Jim would be the ones waiting there (probably in some kind of fancy car they couldn't afford) for Jim to arrive, but since they were not and only that British woman was here, he guessed that the meeting between the Durandos and Jim was already taking place.

The woman (what was her name, again?...oh yeah, Molly) was walking towards him and so Alois was walking away. He wasn't trying to be rude, he just honestly didn't want to be involved with anyone who was involved with Jim anymore.

The sidewalk was crowded now, and Alois had to maneuver past the people (mostly on their way to work at 9:00AM like him, but some out for breakfast or a morning jog or an early visit to the museum) at an impolite and _pushy _speed.

"Lo siento." he apologized in Spanish, upon bumping into a gray-haired man in an equally gray jacket that was unsuited to the temperature.

"Stop." The man said in English.

A _tourist,_ maybe…

…or another one of Jim Moriarty's _'friends'? _

"What?" Alois responded, suspiciously, _"Why?"_

"Because we need to talk to you." The female voice from yesterday answered.

Alois spun around once again to see Molly behind him, while passersby on the pavement glared in annoyance as they were forced to step around the three who'd stopped.

"I have nothing to say to you." He said.

"We just need to know where The Durandos live." Molly stated, "…and if you sent Jim into a trap."

"How many people they do have there, how many weapons?" the gray man added.

"You work for him too?" Alois questioned him.

"What—no! Never!" The man declared in offense, "I'm with the British police. I'm here to arrest that criminal for everything he's done."

(In his indignation at being mistaken for Moriarty's employee, Lestrade had forgotten that he wasn't technically a Detective Inspector at the moment.)

"I don't know, I haven't been there for years! I don't know who's there or what they have!" Alois dismissed, annoyedly, "And I have no idea if it's a trap for Jim or not. All I did was deliver the message like Jim asked. Now leave me alone!"

"Please, just give us directions to where your parents live!" Molly begged, pulling the map of Buenos Aires and a pen from her purse (small cloth shoulder bag) and handing them (a bit forcefully—especially for her) to him, "Here, use this map."

Alois groaned but took the materials and attempted to draw a line down the roads that one would have to take if one were to visit the Durandos. However, the ink from the pen smudged and ran off the sleek paper, causing Alois to push the map back into Molly's hands in frustration.

"This isn't going to work." He decided, then taking off and opening his backpack to retrieve a sketchbook, "I'll do it here."

He walked over to the steps leading up to the art museum and sat down on the middle one next to his backpack, then drawing on the first blank page of the sketchbook.

Molly and Lestrade followed him, standing in front of him while he worked.

When Alois had finished, he ripped the now illustrated page out of the book and handed it to Molly.

"This will show you where to go." He assured, "…but you have to promise to get rid of it once you're done. You can't show this anyone else. Nobody is supposed to know where this place is."

"Okay." Molly promised, nodding, "Thank you."

After nodding, she glanced down at the hand-drawn map. Although created very quickly and only from memory, it was surprisingly detailed and (in comparison to the complementary map from the hotel in her other hand) accurate.

Molly had never been much of an artist, but even she could tell that the quality quick sketch was well above the capabilities of the average person—perhaps even the average _artist._

(After all, Molly was very used to dealing with people with above-average capabilities.)

Lestrade leaned over to get a look at the map himself, and with a glance at Alois and then Molly, concurred with her 'professional opinion'.

"Well take a cab as far as that road." Lestrade stated, pointing at a line of the paper, "Then we'll walk."

"It's a dirt road, anyway." Alois informed, standing up to join the two around the new map in Molly's hands, "Watch out for the mud once you get into the woods. The ground isn't as solid as it looks."

"Thanks, got it." Lestrade accepted, nodding at Alois and then turning to Molly, "Let's go."

He started towards the edge of the sidewalk, holding up hand to single to the next passing taxi.

Molly gave Alois one last thankful look, before following Lestrade.

"…Good luck…" Alois told them, quietly, although they were getting into the black and yellow car that had pulled up to the curb.

But as it drove away, Alois saw the black remis arrive from the other direction and cut across traffic to take the place of taxi which had already disappeared in to the stream of vehicles.

Once again unable to run away from his problems, Alois could not escape from the two bald and one-mohawked teenagers dressed in black that forced him into their limo.

From the backseat, he stared at the hint of tattoo on the back of the driver's neck, remembering how the image continued into an almost Egyptian-looking black eagle (although the species was called 'golden') and how he'd been the one to tattoo it there.

The teenagers told Alois he was being taken to see his parents but knowing that Jim must have been the one to reveal where he was, Alois wondered if it wasn't really Jim having him brought back to the swamp compound for some sick reason that made sense only to him.

He also wondered if they'd run into Molly and her gray-haired friend along the way.

Through the tinted window beside him (he wasn't going to look at the red mohawked teenager sitting next to him) Alois watched the traffic and city disperse until they were once again on that familiar rural road surrounded by grassland.

But before the remis made the turn onto the dirt road, it stopped.

Instead of asking why, Alois craned his neck to watch as the three boys exited the black limo and approached a woman standing next to her broken down car.

She waved her phone as if to indicate that it was dead, and then pointed to the open hood of her vehicle, shrugging and shaking her head as if she had no idea how to fix it.

The mohawked teenaged bent to look at the engine and a man appeared from the tall grass to slam it down on him, knocking him out. Just then another man jumped out of the grass, shouting an angry something in English at the first man and then checking to see if the boy was alright.

The boy's two teenaged companions gaped in shock for a moment before rolling up the sleeves of their black uniformed to attack the two gray-jacketed men.

The gray-jacketed woman folded her arms in amusement, looking on as the adult men subdued two skinny teenage boys.

Once all three black-uniformed boys were sleeping soundly in the woman's car, Alois sat frozen in fear because the three attackers were heading straight towards the limo he was inside.

When they opened the doors (the woman and the first man the driver's side and passenger's side, respectively and then the second man the backseat door), the three blinked confusedly at Alois's presence.

Alois raised his arms in surrender.

"Knock him out, too." Moran told John, who was the closest to Alois.

"He's not one of them." John told Moran, gesturing at Alois's light blue uniform.

"So?" Moran shrugged, for the second time that day, "He's a witness."

"He's their hostage." John countered.

"He's older than them and better dressed." Moran disagreed, "He could be their leader."

"I know he's not their leader because I saw Moriarty arguing with him yesterday in the art museum." John explained.

"That doesn't mean anything." Moran dismissed, "He could've been the one to order them to pick up Jim earlier."

Alois looked back and forth at the 'former' soldiers arguing back in forth (heads leaning into the car but bodies outside), opening his mouth to speak but unable to get a word in.

Anthea sighed, turning to Alois.

"Hello," she greet (in Spanish, assuming that Alois didn't understand English and that's why he was silent and watching confusedly as Moran and John argued), "Would you be able to give us directions to the nearest Jim Moriarty?"

* * *

Jim Moriarty was tapping the canvas he held in one hand impatiently against his leg as he leaned against the faded white wall of the wooden shed.

Across from him stood the two remaining Durandos, rigid, uncomfortable and also very impatient.

"What's taking them so long?" Jim complained, finally, "The museum's less than an hour away."

"If our son is not there, then you're not leaving with that painting." The man stated.

"It's not my fault if he skips a shift." Jim countered, "Besides, you've got a gallery of these 'Lost Vermeers', you won't miss just one."

"You're not treating it very well." The woman commented, glaring at the way Jim was handling the forged artwork.

"It's fake." Jim scoffed, "Who cares?" he shrugged, then added, "You said the old forger died in the 80's, didn't you? So why do you have so many of these now when Al only came up with his steal and resale plan a couple years ago?"

"They were just left there." The woman said, "The old man must have painted them all before he died."

"But that doesn't make any sense…" Jim continued, voice feigning confusion but smirk alluding conjecture, "Now, why would he do that? Are you _sure_ it was him?—Not that it actually matters, of course, as long as I get this one aged and in the gallery where it belongs."

Both Durandos stood silently.

Jim chuckled for a while, but after that died down the silence continued, interrupted only by small animals (bugs, toads, fish)…_and then something else._

The shouts of different voices and in different languages, the splash of someone falling into the swampwater, and finally the crash of someone kicking down the front gate to the compound.

All three whipped their heads towards the entrance to see three more stomping across the boardwalk towards them.

Recognizing John, Moran and Anthea, Jim turned to the Durandos.

"Well, at least it's not the Red Army…" He said.

"There he is!" John shouted.

Jim looked to see John pointing at him, glaring communally with Anthea and Moran at him as well. He looked back at the Durandos.

"Thank you for your time and painting, Senores." He thanked, "And as a token of my gratitude I _probably_ won't kill you—I'm not supposed to be doing that anymore anyway and I've brought you a doctor so you probably won't die."

"What?" was all the man and woman were able to say before they saw Jim pull out a gun from his pocket with his free hand.

"Plus, I'll shoot you somewhere nonfatal." Jim added, then waved the gun at both of them, muttering, "Now which one of you... 'ladies first' or 'take it like a man'?—oh, whatever, 'age before beauty'."

Jim pointed the gun at the man who was most likely older than his wife and more likely to survive a gunshot wound than a woman.

"_No—!"_ man and wife cried.

…only to be cut off by the thunder of a bullet leaving a gun and landing in the man's lower leg (probably not a fatal spot, right?).

Jim was a very charitable criminal.

The man yelled in pain, falling instantly to the board floor and clutching his leg, the woman dropping to kneel beside him and screaming in horror.

"The man needs a doctor! _STAT!"_ Jim called over to the British invaders of the secret Nazi compound.

Then, he turned and ran (dropping the fake Vermeer behind him).

Moran and John started chasing him but, as predicted, John stopped to tend to the man who'd been shot, leaving Moran to chase Jim alone.

Anthea _would_ have been helping to chase Jim, however, she was wearing high heels and could not take them off to run because she would've gotten splinters from the boardwalk.

She walked as quickly as she could in the direction that Jim and then Moran had run.

* * *

After fighting a war in which words were thrown at each other from behind two language barriers…

(…or, after the taxi driver had attempted to take them the long way to their destination, despite the detailed map…)

….Molly and Lestrade paid the cab fare (she had insisted upon splitting it when he tried to pay for it in full and he, not really feeling like being a gentleman today (or to h_er) _didn't insist otherwise) and exited the cab in front of the dirt road they'd seen on the map.

They saw the three uniformed teenagers asleep on the ground by the side of the road, tall grass acting as their beds and blankets. They decided to pass by silently, so as not to wake them.

The marsh was difficult to walk through, once the dirt path had turned completely to mud and then ended, making them travel unsteadily across the soggy grass. Finally, they reached the wooden bridge over a murky pond that led to the tall wooden fence surrounding the structure detailed on the hand-drawn map still in Molly's hands.

As they stepped onto the bridge, a fourth teenage boy pulled himself out of the water, coughing and gasping for breath, onto its boards. He stood up, took one look at Lestrade and Molly standing there, staring at him in confusion, and then dived back into the water.

Molly and Lestrade watched, still staring in confusion, as the boy swam away from the wooden structure through the still waters of the stream towards the Rio de la Plata.

Then they crossed the bridge into the open compound.

First they saw John kneeling beside a bleeding man and a crying woman, applying pressure to the wound on the man's leg.

"Take the bullet out!" the man ordered, "I'll get lead poisoning!"

"It's 2012, we don't use lead bullets anymore." John refused, "The bullet is what's stopping most of the blood from escaping."

Lestrade and Molly rushed towards the scene, causing John (and the man and woman) to look up and them in surprise.

"How did you—why is she—You know what? Nevermind." John started and stopped, "Molly, you help this man! Greg, we've get after Moriarty! He and Moran went that way!"

He jumped up and hurried off in the direction he'd indicated, Lestrade quickly following him, leaving Molly to do what she'd been told.

"Do something!" the woman begged of Molly, "My husband's dying!"

(That was an exaggeration, but her husband _was_ injured and in extreme pain.)

"Okay!" Molly agreed, "…um, do you have a First Aid kit?"

"A what?" the woman asked.

"Nevermind…" Molly muttered, then glancing around for something to bandage the man's wounds.

She saw a painting that look suspiciously like the forged 'Lost Vermeer' (the real one, maybe?) just lying there on the wooden floor.

Then, she noticed a dimly-lit shed behind it in which she found rows of frameless paintings and then blank canvases. She grabbed one of the blank ones and brought it over to the man and woman.

"What are you doing?!" the man demanded, through gritted teeth.

Struggling, Molly eventually managed to rip the canvas skin from its wooden bones and then tear it into strips that she used to bandage his wounds.

"Who did this to you?" Molly questioned, already suspecting the answer.

"The criminal Jim Moriarty." The man stated, "The one you and your friends are here to apprehend."

"I'm not—" Molly began, then deciding that telling this older couple (the Durandos?) that she was actually the girlfriend of the one who'd just shot the husband instead of with the team that had come to arrest him wasn't the best idea.

And if Jim wasn't here to be apprehended, Molly would've already pulled out her phone and dialed whatever number they use in Buenos Aires to call an ambulance.

She wanted to get up and go look for him too but she knew she couldn't leave the wounded man. And even if she and his wife _were _able to drag him all the way out to the paved road, there would be no vehicle there to drive him to a hospital with.

Now, all she could do was hope that Jim either escaped the compound or was captured without being shot to death by John (who would get shot to death by Moran and Anthea as would Lestrade if he attempted to intervene).

And what would happen to_ her_ when this particular situation had been 'resolved' (or whatever passed for resolution in situations concerning Jim Moriarty)….? Molly could only _guess._

She looked over at the woman, who was shaking her head down at the floorboards, when she heard her murmuring to herself in language that wasn't English or Spanish.

Despite his pain, her husband coughed a cracking bitter laugh, causing Molly to turn back to him.

"She's saying were being punished for the 'sins of our fathers' and for driving our son away." He informed, in disgusted amusement.

Molly couldn't think of how to respond to that statement or the man, so just smiled at him, weakly and sympathetically.

His wife paused to glare at him, but then returned to her words in what Molly assumed was German.

The man laughed again ( to which Molly shivered uncomfortably, despite the muggy heat) and added, "Listen, now she's praying."

* * *

"You can't run forever!" Moran shouted as he ran after Jim, down the boardwalk towards the biggest cabin, the painted building growing as they grew closer to it.

"As long as there's someone to chase me, I can!" Jim shouted back, turning his head to grin at the glowering Moran, "…and I _will!"_

He pushed open the front door to the cabin once he reached it, slamming and locking it behind him.

Moran, right behind him, kicked it down and rushed into the entry room (sparsely furnished, and walls unpainted on the inside), glancing around before rushing up the stairs.

Only after checking the entire _(so many empty rooms…)_ cabin did Moran realize that Jim had probably just gone out a back door or a window. He exited the way he'd entered, to see John and Lestrade (how did he get here?) jump back as the door swung open and then fell off its hinges after slamming against the outside walls.

"Where is he?!" Lestrade demanded, scanning his white and wooden surroundings.

"I don't know." Moran grumbled under his breath.

"You_ lost_ him!?" John accused, in disbelief, "I knew we couldn't trust you, you probably _let_ Moriarty get away!"

"You mean like your friend did this morning?!" Moran redirected, gesturing at Lestrade.

"Not this again!" Lestrade complained, "We can't waste our time arguing, we've got to find him!

"Split up." John suggested, to which the other two nodded.

With that, he three sprinted off in separate directions like debris bursting from an explosion.

* * *

Meanwhile, Anthea (who had been walking briskly rather than running) quickly hid behind a smaller cabin as she saw Jim and then Moran run into the large one.

As predicted, she saw Jim sneak out of a side window _without_ Moran on his trail.

Jim continued past the huge central house and Anthea followed him (walking on her tip-toes so her heels wouldn't click) as he crept around the compound.

It was a maze of mostly empty structures, covered in peeling white paint now faded and translucent like the color of ghosts.

Suddenly, a board creaked under Anthea's foot causing Jim to whirl around to see her and then, of course, start running.

Anthea attempted to run after him this time (heels be damned), but the board broke beneath her and she tripped forwards, landing on her face with her foot trapped in a whole.

Ear to the boardwalk, she could hear Jim's running feet (and, she was sure of it, his laughter).

* * *

Jim moved forward until he reached the edge of the compound, a tall fence of logs with sharped tips like pencils (or spears (same thing)).

From there he ran along that fence, circling the compound and stopping to hide behind a shed that stepping out from behind would make him visible to John.

John, luckily, seemed very occupied with the man in pain and woman in hysterics (who both also seemed very occupied at the moment).

Jim reasoned that if he was quick and quiet enough, he could slip past the three and out the front gates of the compound.

And he was about to do just that when he saw two more familiar people pass through said gates.

Molly Hooper and Gregory Lestrade.

Jim was confused when Lestrade didn't burst into the compound along with Moran, Anthea and John, as he had seen him stalking Molly like he always did (the creeper!) in the art museum yesterday.

But Molly was _not _supposed to be here.

_('Here'_ being where Jim had shot an unarmed and reasonably innocent man (albeit in the lower leg) which Molly would probably whine about for a while or sigh to herself sadly without telling him anything was wrong or what the problem was when they both knew it was this (or silly just as silly and inconsequential.))

And what the _hell_ was she doing with _Lestrade?!_

(Lestrade being that creepy stalker who came to her apartment and where she worked almost every other day and wouldn't leave her alone. Had she finally given in to his aggressive and unrelenting advances? Had he given her no choice?)

Jim watched as Molly obeyed John's orders while John and Lestrade ran away down the boardwalk in the direction he had just come.

Molly then used canvas strips she tore from a canvas to bandage Mr. Durando's bullet wound.

_So resourceful and yet still such a follower…_

Jim considered leaving her behind and escaping quickly and quietly like he'd planned...but the thought of either Mycroft getting his hands on her_—metaphorically—(_as Molly would inevitably be captured by Anthea, who'd bring her back to her employer) or Lestrade getting his hands on her_—literally—(_by redeeming the poor victim who'd finally been abandoned by her evil criminal captor), stopped him.

He continued to watch Molly until she was finishing bandaging the man (which would have to be good enough for her because now they had to go) and then slunk stealthily out from the shadows.

Jim was going to sneak up on Molly, but the woman pointed at him and hissed _"You!" _

Molly's gaze followed the woman's finger until it set upon Jim who shrugged, "Me?"

Molly jumped up.

"Jim, did you shoot him?" she inquired, careful to keep her voice steady.

"Obviously." Jim answered, rolling his eyes.

"Why would you do that for no reason?!" Molly then exclaimed, losing all composure.

"I _did_ have a reason." Jim sighed, "We can fight about this and have make-up sex later. First, let's get out of here before our 'old friends' come back."

"They were your 'old friend' you were talking about on the plane?" Molly asked, taken aback, "But I thought—"

"Well, _John_ was, anyway." Jim explained, "I never said he was my 'old friend' and yes, I was being sarcastic. I'd noticed how your 'friend' Johnny-boy started working at that other hospital just to spy on you and thought it was kind of cute. I didn't know your '_boy_friend' 'Greg' would be able to tag along on this South American expedition, though. I thought he'd be home, you know, with his wife and kids."

"So you knew they'd be coming after us the whole time." Molly evaluated.

"I knew it was a _possibility."_ Jim admitted, shrugging, "The other one was they all shoot each other."

"_What?!"_

"Let's just go. You can figure it all out later if you're smart enough."

"Nobody's going anywhere."

Looking away from Molly, Jim saw that a pack of wolves was closing in around him from all sides.

Moran blocked the gates to the compound, gun in hand, while Anthea (wearing only one shoe) blocked his path to its central cabin. Lestrade and John stood to either side of him and the various wooden buildings beside them completed the circle.

Despite being outnumbered and cornered, Jim pulled out his gun.

"Put it down." Anthea warned.

"_Make me."_ Jim baited, sticking out his tongue at her.

"_I'll_ make him." Moran decided, stomping towards him from the gates.

"Oh, hello there, Mr. Sebastian Moran, sir." Jim turned and greeted him docilely, "How's that new government job working out for you? Did you tell your bosslady that it was you who freed me on that island 'resort' the allies are storing missiles to shoot at North Africa from?"

"The only reason I helped you escaped is so I could track you down and kill you myself." Moran explained, "I knew I'd never be able to do it if you were in custody or your brother was around."

"And now you can't do it because _she_ is." Jim concluded, gesturing at Anthea, "I wonder if she and Mycroft have figured out that you're not James's spy but _Porlock's."_

"You'll say anything to try and save your own skin." Moran scoffed, "But everybody knows you're a liar nobody's stupid enough to believe you."

"I'll say anything?" Jim repeated, with a laugh, "Then how about _this?"_ he turned to John and said, _"_Sherlock's_ alive. _And he's the one who hired me to fly all the way to Argentina just to pick up a piece of cloth with some paint on it."

"Don't you dare say his name." John growled, pulling out the gun from his bulky jacket's pocket.

"Whose name? You mean _Sherlock's?"_ Jim dared, "I've been saying that name so much longer and louder than you ever have—and ever _will._ Sherlock is_ mine_. We have _history,_ decades of it, and little children who weren't around for it will never know what it's like to be a part of _our_ war, our _Game." _

The statement made John clench his fists but also made Molly tense, as it applied just as much to her as it did to him (if not _more)._

_"You're_ the child." John countered, "Sherlock didn't pay attention to you and so you went on murder spree, ruined his reputation and killed him. You threw a _tantrum."_

"I didn't kill him—"

"Yes you _did._ You may not have pushed him off the roof of the hospital, but you killed him. You must have said something to him, threatened to blow up another building or kill his brother, if he didn't jump…And maybe you had Molly up there on the rooftop with you. Maybe you held a gun to her head, saying you'd shoot her if Sherlock didn't kill himself and it didn't matter if he knew she was faking because he knew _you_ weren't. You'd have killed them both."

Molly's breath caught at John's untrue implication that she was working with Jim against Sherlock—and his very true declaration that Jim was (more than) willing to kill both her and Sherlock.

She wanted to speak, but her voice was cowering somewhere in her throat, under her caught breath.

There was no point in denial or trying to defend herself, anyway. Now that she was known as a 'liar' _(just like Jim)_ nobody would ever believe her _(just like Jim). _

"I'd have killed _myself."_ Jim corrected John's words, "Myself and Sherlock, and I _did—_except Molly had to go and bring me back from the dead. She wasn't supposed to, she's supposed to cut them up and let them rest in pieces. But look at her now, saving lives…"

Jim gestured at the wounded man lying down on the boardwalk and bandaged with blank paint canvas, who was now wheezing out laughter (probably delirious, everything had become funny to him after he was shot) as his wife glared at everyone who had intruded into her home.

"…but look at _you,_ 'Doctor' Watson." Jim continued, "You were always a life saver. A doctor first, soldier second—until you met Sherlock Holmes. He didn't make you into a killer, but he's made you _want _to kill. He's made you _like_ it."

"No, I think I have to give you the credit for that, Moriarty." John returned, anger controlled and civil.

"So what are you waiting for, then?" Jim asked, "I've insulted your 'dead' best friend, insulted your honor, I've already given you a reason and now I've given you an _excuse._ Kill me! _You know you wanna…"_

"I _do _want to and I _don't_ need an excuse." John confirmed, "…But Mycroft needs you alive and so I'll just have to wait."

"Mycroft?" Jim repeated, groaning, "What does he want this time?"

"Surrender and find out." Anthea instructed.

"No, thanks." Jim refused, with mock manners.

"Just give up!" Molly begged, "We can explain everything to them later. Sherlock can—"

"_Sherlock's dead."_ John interrupted.

"I know you won't believe me, but no he's really not." Molly insisted, "…here, I'll prove it."

She reached into her purse, causing everyone with a gun to point said guns at her (except for Jim who pointed his gun at all of them in turn, causing them to point their guns back at him).

Instead of a gun, of course, Molly pulled out a phone.

Everyone was silent as it rang but when Sherlock Holmes did _not_ answer, everyone returned to their previous state of arguing with and insulting each other.

"It's over, Moriarty!" John shouted.

"Put down the gun right now!" Lestrade added.

"Please, Jim, just do what they say!" Molly cried, "There's nothing else you_ can_ do!"

"Oh yeah?" Jim tested, "How about _this?"_ he moved to grab her, pressing his gun to the side of her head, "Ladies, Gentlemen, and Sebastian Moran, drop your weapons or I'll shoot the girl."

Molly was too shocked to scream, but her eyes widened to look at Jim confusedly and pleadingly.

John, Lestrade, Anthea and Moran also looked at Jim, and then at each other (rolling their eyes). They burst into restrained and dismissive laughter to which Jim frowned.

"Just give up already," Anthea scoffed, "You're embarrassing yourself."

Jim lowered the gun and stepped away from Molly, "It worked when Sherlock did it…" he grumbled.

"This how you let him treat you?" Lestrade asked Molly, who then decided it was time to check on the man who'd been shot and so kneeled to do so.

He and his wife were conversing in whispered German, no doubt trying to figure out what to do (what, if anything, they_ could_ do). The Durandos were just as trapped in this situation as she was.

"Enough of this." Moran declared, then immediately raising his gun and pulling the trigger.

Jim yelped, falling to the boardwalk and clutching his knee. His shouts and curses were muffled by the echoing explosion and the ringing in everyone's ears it caused.

Now Mr. Durando was laughing at _Jim _and Mrs. Durando was smiling appreciatively as if justice had finally been done.

Molly leapt from their side to Jim's, frantically exclaiming "where did it hit?!"

"Kneecap." Moran answered for Jim (whose voice was very audible but whose words might as well have been gibberish), "He won't be running away ever again—"

Moran was interrupted by another booming gunshot, and he too fell down to the boardwalk, clutching the area just under his knee.

However, being a manly man he clenched his teeth instead of screaming in pain, then telling someone to "get the gun away from" Jim.

Jim sat on the wooden floor, attempting to laugh.

Anthea hopped towards him on the foot she had a shoe for.

"You've had your fun, Jim." She said, "Now give me the gun."

She extended an open hand and Jim lifted his gun towards her open hand only to aim it at her midway.

"Don't think I won't shoot a woman." He warned, wincing, "Hop away slowly."

Anthea narrowed her eyes and retracted her open hand, replacing it with a gun pointed at Jim's forced-grinning face.

"_This is crazy, _just surrender!" Molly exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration, "You need to go to a hospital and so do they!" she gestured to the two other men who'd been shot that afternoon, then muttering "Sometimes you really don't know when to quit."

"I hate quitters." Jim commented, "Don't become one now or I really _will _shoot you." He turned his gun back towards her momentarily in demonstration.

Molly flinched.

"That's it." John decided, "This is ending right now."

He aimed his gun at Jim who aimed his gun at John.

"Wait!" Anthea called, "We need him alive!"

"I'm sorry, but there is nothing that justifies keeping him alive any longer." John disagreed.

"Don't to do it, John—" Anthea warned, pointing her gun at him, but it was too late.

As soon as she saw John pull the trigger on his gun, she pulled the trigger on hers. Hit in the chest, John fell backwards and his bullet shot up towards the sky. At that same moment Jim _also_ shot at John but Lestrade jumped between the two, shooting a bullet that lodged Jim's arm, before too falling backwards after being hit in the chest.

When John and Lestrade had joined Jim, Moran and Mr. Durando in lying shot on the boardwalk and everyone thought it was over, Moran lifted his gun and shot Anthea in the chest, causing her to hit the wooden floor as well.

"Why?" Anthea managed to choke out.

"You should have let Jim get killed." He stated, plainly.

Jim, laughing and coughing, was now unable to move his left arm and so his gun fell from his lip fingers. Before he could pick it up with his other hand, Molly snatched (pointing it at the floor in case it somehow went off).

"Look what you've done!" she sobbed, dry and in disbelief.

Jim continued to cackle (and cough).

The woman sitting next to Molly, next to her shot significant other (who had also been coughing and laughing but was now sleeping), suddenly leaned over and took the gun from Molly's hands.

"No!" Molly screamed.

But instead of shooting anyone with the weapon, the woman simply smacked Jim on the head_, hard, _causing him to slump down onto Molly's lap unconscious.

"Despite what you may think, we're not all killers." The woman told Molly.

Molly glanced at the half torn blank canvas, but was unable to reach it without moving Jim. He was bleeding onto the nice clothing she'd warn for this meeting with the Durandos and the 'old friend'.

John, Lestrade, and Anthea all lay on the boardwalk nearby, seemingly dead.

_Seemingly._

* * *

**It doesn't get any less ambiguous than that, does it?**

**Ya'll know I'd never kill them so I knew writing as if they died probably wouldn't fly, and be a rude and unnecessary cliffhanger. **

**Surprise, surprise.**

**Everyone survives. **

**(Hey, that rhymes!) **

**I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter and I hopefully will right the next one soon as I am about to go on break the week after next. **

**Please review! **


	25. at Stars

**Anyone still read this thing lol? **

**Merry late Christmas and Happy late New Year! **

**Probably only five more chapters to go, I'm most likely ending this at 30 chapters. **

**I know I said I'd talk about oil but nobody (not many people) care lol and it's a lot of random stuff that doesn't have much to do with the story so it's at the bottom if you really care to humor me. **

**Either way, I hope you like the chapter enough to review. It's a big secret but I really love reviews, especially nice ones. Shocking, I know. And I know I'm shallow and easy to please. The 18****th**** is my birthday. Reviews are the best present (other than hugs from my mother and grandma lol). **

**Also, I gave Ms. Wenceslas a first name. I don't know if she ever had one in the show, but I couldn't dig one up and so I decided to call her 'Sofie'. **

**And here I am rambling again. **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing and bearing with me so far. **

**I hope this chapter is tolerable although it is a bit of a necessary filler/ 'tying up loose ends' kinda thing. **

**Story is almost over anyway… :( **

**I hope you like/liked it!**

**:) :) :)**

* * *

Molly stared in horror at John, Lestrade, and Anthea lying on the boardwalk nearby, seemingly dead.

_Seemingly._

And then they all sat up.

Molly stared in horror at John, Lestrade and Anthea rising from the dead on the boardwalk nearby.

They struggled to stand as they dusted themselves off and removed their bulky gray jackets made of bullet proof material, a standard piece of uniform given to them by the private military company which Lestrade was temporarily working for and Moran used to work for (and may or may not have been continuing to work for in secret).

"…how?" Molly gasped, not yet realizing what the jackets were made off.

She was unable to stand, weighed down to the wooden floor by her boyfriend slumped over in her lap.

Unconscious and leaking blood, Jim was only ever 'peaceful' after he'd been violently struck down.

"Bulletproof vests." Moran explained, also still seated due to his bleeding leg, "They're built into the jackets."

"We're not stupid." John added, curtly but evenly, eyeing Molly from where he now stood upright and above her, "We knew who we were going after and we knew how this would end."

"Oh..." Molly accepted, nodding and looking back down at Jim unable to handle eye-contact with the judging John.

Dead silent for the first time in minutes, Molly heard the sudden—although almost inaudible—noise first.

The creak of wood on the boardwalk.

John and Moran heard it immediately after she had.

Their heads whipped around to stare at as the gates to the compound flew open once again.

Argentine police officers in full 'SWAT Team'-style uniforms stampeded into the enclosed wooden hideout, establishing a perimeter on the edges of the wooden fence and searching every wooden structure.

Their leader shouted something in Spanish at the foreigners.

It caused Anthea to lift her arms into the air, one hand holding a gun and the other hand holding her smartphone. Her thumb typed a code into the smartphone, briefly, before both items were dropped with a thud to the boardwalk below.

Following Anthea's example, John and Lestrade lowered their weapons to the boardwalk and put their hands up while Moran growled and slammed his gun down next to him.

Molly let go of Jim and slowly raised her arms, signaling a surrender that had already occurred.

Mrs. Durando gasped. She then leaped up from her husband's side and rushed past the army of police officers over to the open gates.

There she embraced her son.

Alois tensed, uncomfortable being touched by the mother he hadn't seen in over a year…until he gazed past her and saw his father lying on the boardwalk having been shot in the leg.

He then saw Jim (the assumed cause of that injury), lying half on the board walk and half on Molly, also shot and unconscious.

Alois decided that was an even better punishment for Jim than having the police called on him (and his pursuers).

* * *

The interrogation rooms at the police station in Buenos Aires were standard interrogation room fare; metal table and chairs, three concrete walls and one two-way mirror.

Separated by gender and kept separate from the Argentine prisoners, Anthea and Molly had been taken to one of these rooms while John and Lestrade had been taken to another.

They didn't know where Moran and Jim had been taken, other than to an undisclosed hospital somewhere in the city.

Phones, guns and bullet proof vests had of course been confiscated (along with all of the forged paintings found at the Durandos' compound) but because this was only a jail, not a prison, no uniforms had been issued.

Molly sat one of the cold metal chairs at the cold metal table, Jim's dried blood making her skirt discolored and coarse. Nervously, she attempted again and again to smooth it over her knees—not that she thought it would actually help, but just to keep busy.

Desensitized by her job, the sight of blood (wet or dry) didn't disgust her but the fact that it was _Jim's_ blood made her uneasy.

_(Where was Jim? _His wounds weren't fatal, but how long did he have to live in captivity?)

Molly stared down at the brownish dried blood on her lap and then down at her shoes, covered with mud from trekking through the river-side swamp.

Then she saw Anthea's feet.

Sockless, she was wearing Jim's shoes (well, he'd been unconscious and carried so he hadn't needed them).They also caked with mud, too big for her and clashed terribly with her feminine skirtsuit.

Molly watched the feet in the shoes pace back and forth through the tiny cell, much like Jim had done in front of the art museum that morning.

"They'll regret arresting me when they find out who my employer is." Anthea declared, finally, then warning Molly "…if they try to interrogate you, say nothing."

Molly said nothing.

She sat there, silent and motionless, staring down at the concrete floor of the concrete room. She didn't dare look up and see herself the 'mirror' that they were probably being watched through.

Anthea stopped and Molly watched her feet (Jim's shoes) turn to face her.

"They're not listening to us now." she said, "You can talk now, if you want."

Molly still remained quiet, not looking up at Anthea.

She then saw the legs of the other metal chair pull away from the table, screeching. Anthea sat down in the chair, across from Molly.

Molly looked up and looked Anthea in the face, rather than her own reflection.

So this was going to be an interrogation, after all.

_Good._

Molly _wanted_ to talk.

She wanted to tell Anthea (and everyone) that they were wrong about Jim this time and for once in his life he didn't deserve to die for what he was doing.

"None of this would have happened, if you didn't come after Jim and me." Molly began, "Sherlock really did ask Jim to come here and get a painting. I'm not lying. And you _know_ he's alive. Why haven't you told John and Greg?"

"Sherlock specifically asked my employer to tell no one, and we're respecting that request." Anthea explained, "You and Jim should have done the same."

"There's no reason to keep it secret anymore." Molly countered, then adding, "…and there's no reason to kill or arrest Jim anymore, either."

Anthea raised an eyebrow.

"Not his numerous crimes?" she tested.

"You all had your chance to stop him before…but you let him go." Molly reminded, "What good will killing him do now? He's helping Sherlock which is the same thing your boss is trying to do. Besides, it's not as if whatever secret section of the government you're from hasn't done just as many, well, _crimes _as Jim has. And Sebastian Moran killed fellow soldiers for no reason in Afghanistan—"

"'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone'?" Anthea paraphrased, snorting and shaking her head dismissively, "…_John Watson_ hasn't 'sinned'. When my employer is finally finished with Jim Moriarty, I'm sure he'll be happy to let _John _'cast the stone'. It's the least we can do for misleading him so long…"

Molly swallowed to keep her breath from catching, muscles tensing as her skin developed goosebumps. Only now she realized how cold and dark it really was in this interrogation room.

But she said nothing.

* * *

Jim awoke in a hospital room (well, at least it wasn't a morgue this time), feeling slightly drowsy and disoriented. There was a tingling numbness in his right leg (knee and below).

Laying on a hospital bed beneath a standard white blanket, Jim could see the shape of both his legs in front of him.

Because doctors hadn't amputated one (or both) in his sleep, he knew that neither Anthea's angels (Moran, John, Lestrade) nor the British government were the ones who had put him here (wherever this hospital was, probably still Buenos Aires because he could overhear the people in the hallway speaking in Spanish).

That meant somebody else had stormed in 'Dues Ex Machina'-style into the Durando's secret swamp lair, rounding everyone up and throwing them from their 'frying pan' of getting shot into the 'fire' of being arrested.

Either Molly (with Lestrade) had stupidly gone to the police or Alois had (and Alois had to have been involved in this somehow because he's the only one who could have told Molly (and Lestrade) how to find his parents' home).

Attempting to sit up in bed, Jim found that his left wrist was chained via handcuff to the plastic hospital bed. Just out of his reach was the remote to adjust it.

Only able to move one of his legs and one of his arms, Jim was essentially 'paralyzed'.

…_for now. _

He was sure could get out of the handcuff with enough effort—but would that even be worth it if he couldn't walk?

Jim couldn't feel the leg that had been shot, so there was currently no pain in it. The _arm_ that had been shot, however, was a different story. A story of a dull ache in the entire limb that became sharper and sharper closer to epicenter of the bullet wound.

Both of the bullets were already gone, of course. They'd been taken out while he slept. And he could see them a little tray on the bedside table, lying there metal and red with blood like a warning (to which Jim scoffed).

Also, upon locating the door to the same side of his bed, Jim could see that a uniformed police officer stood guard.

Jim glanced over to his other side.

Moran lay in another hospital bed which he was also handcuffed to. _He _had no white blanket over his legs. Instead, he had a cast on the leg Jim had shot him in.

Moran _looked _as if he was asleep, but Jim knew he was only pretending so he wouldn't have to talk to him.

"Wakey, wakey…" Jim sang over to him, "…I know you're fake-y."

Moran didn't stir.

"Attention!" Jim shouted.

He saw Moran tense abruptly, forcing himself not to react automatically.

Jim snickered.

Moran opened his eyes and glared at him.

"How's your leg?" Jim asked, eyeing the cast proudly.

Moran snorted.

"Fine." He stated, matter-of-factly, "You missed the knee. Check yours."

Jim's smiled faded as he turned away from Moran to tentatively lift the blanket off his legs, peaking underneath.

Desensitized by his 'job', the sight of blood (wet or dry) fascinated Jim but the fact that it was his own blood made him uncomfortably uneasy.

Jim had never been shot before (unless one counted the time he'd shot himself with a cigarette lighter believing it to be a real gun) and he'd never been this physically injured before either, not even when Mycroft 'entertained' him as a 'guest' in his secret prison.

Jim was too smart for this, too clever.

People like him didn't get shot, for god's sake!

(No, people like Moran and John do._ Soldiers_—knights and pawns. _Never _kings and queens.)

Jim knew he should have known Moran would shoot him (and John would try to—if Anthea hadn't shot John, then John would've been successful in shooting him), he should have had the whole situation under control.

But then Molly (and Lestrade) had shown up, who he had not been planning for and then Anthea and her angels didn't want to fight amongst themselves while he escaped.

And nobody had even believed him when he'd threatened to shoot Molly!

(Except for Molly, of course. Bless her soul, this was why he kept her around.)

Suddenly, doubt sent a shiver through Jim's burning over-confidence (normally so well-deserved).

His tricks were old and overused. Predicable.

_Boring._

There were so many of them, so much of him everywhere that he was worthless.

Gods are worshipped and gods are feared, only by mention (and the rare divine intervention).

But gods didn't get shot (except with cigarette lighters).

Gods didn't get laughed at.

Jim put the white blanket back down over his legs, swallowing to keep his breathing steady.

He then dismissed the silly, irrational emotion probably brought on by whatever strange South American drugs they'd used on him in this hospital (normal, internationally-approved sedative and pain medication), and smiled.

_Laughed._

"What's so funny?" Moran snapped, after the noise had grated on his ears for too long (five seconds so far).

"Oh, nothing." Jim replied, sighing and grinning over at him, "They must really have us doped up."

"They have _you_ 'doped up'." Moran corrected, "I don't let anybody put _me_ to sleep."

"What did you do when they got the bullet out, then?" Jim inquired, raising an eyebrow, "Bite down on a block of wood?"

Moran rolled his eyes and then looked away from Jim, out the window (which was covered by a thick curtain).

"So," Jim continued, "I like the show you and your new 'friends' put on for me. Bullet proof vests, I'm assuming."

"You don't go to war without armor." Moran shrugged, not facing him, "…well, _we_ don't. You did. We weren't as stupid."

"I start wars, I don't go to them." Jim dismissed, "I'm not an expendable foot soldier like you."

"You were the only one shot twice." Moran countered, turning and smirking at him.

"I was outnumbered and un-armored." Jim excused, "You four didn't play fair…but did you actually think it would fool me, shooting at each other like that? What did you even hope to get out of making me think you lot killed each other? Still, it was fun to watch. _Bravo."_

"It wasn't staged to trick you…everyone just got caught up in the moment." Moran informed, to which Jim smiled appreciatively, "It did fool your girlfriend, though." Jim s_cowled_ at _that._

Why was Molly always so easy to trick? _He_ was supposed to be the only one allowed to fool her. It wasn't _special _if she went around getting misled by just anyone.

Jim decided to change the subject.

"So what's the big breakout plan, then?" he asked, "Two sworn enemies trapped alone in a room together…there are only two things that can happen here and I'm open to either. Or both. Whichever—"

"The plan is you shut up." Moran interrupted.

"So you're willing to work with Mycroft and even John, but you don't want to team up and bust out of here?" Jim kept talking, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you don't like me, Mr. Moran…luckily I know better."

Moran didn't dignify that statement with response and so, in the silence, Jim started to shake his handcuff—not that he thought that would actually work but just to keep busy.

It clanked loudly again and again.

Jim had to be loud. Dramatic and excessive fanfare was an assertion of power. In order to react to him, first people needed to know he was there.

Jim waited for Moran's reaction.

But it didn't come. So far, Moran just lay there, motionless and eyes closed, pretending that Jim wasn't there (or didn't exist).

Jim hated being ignored.

Once bored with (and physically tired of) aggravating the handcuff, Jim let his wrist fall with a final clank and his head fall back onto the pillow below him.

He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

* * *

In another interrogation room, separate from the citizen prisoners and identical to the one that held Molly and Anthea, Lestrade and John were being kept by the Buenos Aires police.

Lestrade leaned against the metal table, tired but not relaxed, while John paced back and forth in agitation across the concrete floor.

The one-way window was behind them, they did not look at it and didn't care if anyone was looking in.

"This always happens, he always gets away…" John muttered, then stating to Lestrade, "It was Moriarty. He was the one who called the cops, got us all arrested. He's probably bribed them to let him go and keep us here so we can't go after him."

"He was shot, remember?" Lestrade reminded, "He can't have just walked away. He's probably still in the hospital."

"I know." John affirmed, "But those wounds were nothing."

Lestrade gave a halfhearted and half-offended snort at John's words, as he had given Jim one of the 'nothing' bullet wounds.

"There was a lot of blood." He commented, "Moriarty won't walk normally again, or run. He—"

"I know." John repeated, curtly, halting and turning to Lestrade, "I'm a doctor, remember? And I've been shot, too. I know how bullet wounds work. You don't need to tell me, Greg."

"I know that, John!" Lestrade echoed, taken aback, "I'm just saying it's not all that bad. We still have a chance of getting Moriarty."

_('Getting'_—not _killing._ Because that still was not certain as long as Anthea (and Mycroft) was around.)

Lestrade understood (and completely empathized with) why John was so angry and frustrated, but knew that arguing with each other when they were on the same side wasn't going to help the situation.

"I _would_ have 'got' him…" John muttered again to himself, shaking his head disgustedly as he remembered how Anthea had stopped him by trying to shoot him…and how Lestrade had jumped in the middle.

He had specifically asked Lestrade to stay out of it when he tried to kill Moriarty, and although they were all wearing bulletproof vests (Lestrade's idea—probably because he anticipated the very shootout that indeed occurred) he could've been hit in the head (which was the body part John had been aiming for when he'd tried to shoot Moriarty) and the bulky gray jacket wouldn't have saved him then.

John was angry that Moriarty had gotten away (again) but he was also angry that Lestrade had risked his life like that (for him).

"I don't think it was Moriarty who contacted the police." Lestrade began, changing the subject, "That man in the blue uniform—"

"We found him in a car." John recognized, "He gave us directions to where Moriarty was."

"Yeah, he gave Molly and me directions too." Lestrade affirmed, "Molly told me he got tricked by Moriarty years ago and was terrified of him ever since. I think it was him who went to the police. He wanted Moriarty to get caught."

John took a breath, considering this information. It would mean that the police _weren't _being bribed Moriarty and he'd still be in custody (and in the hospital) whenever this mess was sorted out.

He was sure Anthea was working on that part now and they'd be released soon.

_(Hopefully.) _

And now, at least, John was sure that Moran_ actually did _want Moriarty dead (enough to shoot Anthea in retaliation for preventing John from killing him) so he didn't have to worry about Moran helping Moriarty escape.

But as for Anthea and Mycroft, John still could not figure why they would want Moriarty alive…

…other than his suspicion that Mycroft was secretly working with him.

"…do you think it could be true?" Lestrade questioned, upon John's prolonged silence.

"What could?" John asked, quick and sharp, pretending as if he didn't know what Lestrade was talking about.

"You saw all those paintings the police confiscated." Lestrade maneuvered, "They looked just like that forged 'Lost Vermeer' from the case in 2010."

"So?" John dismissed.

"Well, Molly said it was Sherlock who hired Moriarty to come here and get the real one—" Lestrade explained.

"You shouldn't believe everything she says." John scoffed, bitterly.

"I don't." Lestrade declared, seriously, "But I don't think she was lying when she said that Sherlock was alive."

"You really think Sherlock could be alive?" John tested, approaching Lestrade and staring him directly in the eyes.

John did not look or sound hopeful, he didn't even look or sound vaguely skeptical. No, he just looked and sounded like he thought Lestrade was insane.

Or stupid.

_(…or lying…) _

"I don't know." Lestrade admitted, "…but it's possible, I suppose. He could've, you know, faked his death somehow. Like Moriarty did—"

"He didn't." John stated.

"But both Molly and Moriarty said—"

"Both Molly and Moriarty are liars. And Molly's stupid. She's not the first girl I've seen taken in by_ whatever_ Moriarty does to charm his victims. If she really believes Sherlock's alive, then it's because Moriarty's convinced her."

"All of this, everything that's been going on the past month...Mycroft avoiding us, buildings getting blown up but with no casualties, Moriarty waiting to leave the country until now when could've escaped immediately after everyone thought 'Richard Brook' was shot…it would all make much more sense if Sherlock was still alive."

John shook his head.

"No." He said, "No, he's not. Sherlock is dead."

"But—"

"You weren't there, Greg. I _was._ I was there when Sherlock was standing on the roof of the hospital, I was on the_ phone_ with him. I heard him tell me what he was about to do to do. And then he did it. I watched him jump, I watched him fall, I saw him on the ground…"

John paused, closing his eyes briefly and taking a deep breath. He had to maintain control of his emotions. It was the only control he had.

"…I saw Sherlock there, lying on the pavement," he continued, "his head was bashed in, he was bleeding. I ran to him, I took his pulse…there was nothing. _Nothing._ He was dead. So don't say this would all 'make more sense' if Sherlock was alive, because he's not—there's no way he is—and_ none_ of this has ever made any sense."

"Pulses can be faked, dead bodies can be faked…" Lestrade mentioned, weakly.

He didn't even really believe it himself at this point, he just really _wanted_ to. Sometimes, false hope was better than none. Hope kept a person going when one had nothing else to live for—even if it wasn't _real._

"No." John insisted, "If Sherlock had faked his death, he would've told me. If not before, then right after. But he didn't. He made me _watch…_he wanted me to know it was real."

Lestrade sighed.

"You're right…I'm sorry."

(Sorry for bringing it up, sorry for making John prove him wrong, _sorry that it had ever happened.)_

He pulled out one of the metal chairs, slowly and carefully so it would be quiet, and sat down at the table.

John remained standing.

Sherlock was dead, yes, but Moriarty was still alive. Until John changed that, he had something to live for…

* * *

Sherlock had taken a plane, then a train, and finally a bus to arrive at the forested mountains (Tatras in the Carpathian range) spanning the border where three countries (Czech Republic, Slovakia, Poland) touched.

But he wasn't going to wander the woods aimlessly, searching for his target (The Golem). No, Sherlock knew exactly where the assassin was hiding.

Being a very recognizable criminal, The Golem couldn't hide in a populated area and so had chosen an isolated location to live. And because it extended through three countries, if the authorities of one country caught up to him, he could just escape into another.

But despite being named after a clay monster, The Golem (Oscar Dzundza) was human. He needed food.

There were many ski resorts on this mountain range, all of them recently having break-ins in which only food was taken. The owners and authorities assumed that it had been bears stealing food from their pantries (built of wood or stone, outside in the snow as natural refrigeration).

But Sherlock, of course, knew better. He always did.

Bears were a lot messier than humans and monsters.

_Bears_ didn't force doors clean off their hinges; they shattered them with repeated strikes. And bears tracked by _smell,_ they didn't track by sight. These pantries were much too cold to attract a bear's attention. All the lights, sounds and human activity from the ski resorts would scare a bear away.

They wouldn't scare a _human._ No, they_ attracted_ them.

Sherlock knew exactly what was going on, just from the tiny articles in local papers he'd scanned while riding the train.

Although it was July (16th), the altitude of the area meant that Sherlock needed his standard long dark peacoat and blue scarf wrapped around him as usual as he traversed the path.

Tall trees surrounded him upon this tall mountain, as he followed the lone tall trail of smoke rising up above them both.

_Bears _didn't cook their stolen meat.

In a clearing and tunneled slightly into the side of the cliff, Sherlock found a makeshift cave.

Inside it, there was a small fire circle (the source of the smoke) with meat cooking in a frying pan overtop it along with a sleeping bag and other camping supplies.

This was not a bear's den, but the home of human hermit.

But where was the _human?_

_Where was The Golem...? _

Sherlock glanced around seeing only towering trees, dark and white snow. The contrast, and the reflection from the burning sun above, burned his eyes and he squinted.

Big mistake.

As soon as his eyes had narrowed, Sherlock heard the crunch of snow.

_(Where did it come from? It was echoing through the stone cave and bouncing off the trees.) _

"Golem!" Sherlock shouted, like he had before…

…but unlike before, The Golem was unable to leap out and start strangling him. Why? Because Sherlock had a gun.

Pulling it out from his coat pocket, Sherlock continued: "Come out now or I shoot. You may or may not be hit, but no matter what everyone on this mountain will hear the shot. Police from three countries will all be hurrying towards this spot, your hiding spot will be discovered and you'll have nowhere to run."

After a few moments silence, Sherlock hurt the crunching of footsteps on the snow again. He turned to see the tall man step out from behind a tall tree on the tall mountain a few yards away from him.

Dressed in a heavy black snowsuit (custom made to fit him—that meant he had money to have it made as well as more money to keep secret that it was), The Golem—or, Oscar Dzundza—stood before Sherlock, eyeing him suspiciously.

"…what you want?" Dzundza asked, finally.

He had an accent, but otherwise his voice sounded completely human and normal. Not the growl of a bear or the roar of a monster.

He spoke in English because he recognized Sherlock from England, but Sherlock recognized that he was not fluent.

"To ask you some questions." Sherlock answered, in Czech.

(Although they were technically in Slovakia, the Slovak and Czech languages were essentially the same and as far as Sherlock knew, Dzundza was originally from the Czech Republic (or had at least lived and worked there for a long time). Sherlock had overwritten Russian (which was also similar) in his it with this other Proto-Slavic language while bored on the plane.)

Dzundza was taken aback at Sherlock's language use, understanding what the Englishman said even though the accent sounded too harsh on the consonants (as if he was speaking German or Russian).

"You want to arrest me." Dzundza replied, also in Czech, "I know you're a detective."

"I'm not with the police and I'm not a detective anymore." Sherlock countered, "…I'm dead."

With his other hand, he pulled out an English newspaper from his other coat pocket and tossed it over to Dzundza who picked up and glanced at it questioningly. He could speak some English, but couldn't read it.

"It says that I'm a fraud." Sherlock explained, "You've been off the grid along time not to have heard about this."

"You said you had questions for me." Dzundza diverted, tossing the newspaper to the snowy ground where soon soaked up some of the frozen water.

"Yes, I do." Sherlock affirmed, then asking, "May I lower this gun without you trying to kill me?"

Dzundza nodded.

Sherlock lowered the arm holding the gun, but did not put the weapon away. He waited for a few seconds, to make sure Dzundza didn't make any sudden movements.

When all was still, he spoke again.

"Who hired you to kill the security guard in London?"

"I don't reveal that information."

"He was the only person you've killed outside of the former Czechoslovakia. Whoever hired you must have been persuasive enough to get you to leave your homeland and travel to a foreign country to commit murder."

"That was not _my_ 'homeland'."

"Even so, was it money…or something _else_ that persuaded you?"

"I don't reveal that information."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and raising his gun again towards his target.

"_I_ can be persuasive, too." He threatened "I've left _my_ homeland and traveled to a foreign country. Don't make me commit murder."

The Golem laughed.

"If you kill me, you'll never get the information you want." he dismissed.

"Then give it to me." Sherlock insisted, "You wouldn't be protecting whoever hired you if you didn't care about her."

"_Her?"_ Dzundza repeated, _almost_ snorting, "Then you know already who it is."

"I had my suspicions, which you just confirmed." Sherlock confirmed, _almost _smiling, "…But Ms. Wenceslas isn't protecting _you,_ even though the Wenceslas family is descended from royalty charged with protecting the Czech people."

"This is Slovakia and I'm Polish." Dzundza stated, "She owes me nothing."

"But doesn't she?" Sherlock questioned, "Did she ever pay you for the two British citizens you killed?"

"She didn't have to." Dzundza informed, "And she didn't hire me to kill either of those people. She didn't even ask me to. I chose to do it myself, when she told me about her problems. She never knew anything about it."

"I think she did." Sherlock disagreed, "After all, she knew all about how you were a hitman from the Czechoslovakian government, killing the very people you now hide amongst. She told my associate everything. Why are you protecting her?"

He expected a love story. The story of an isolated man who'd do anything for the one woman who loved him despite him being _different._ The story of a fool who was tricked and used, all because of a stupid emotion.

Instead, Sherlock got the laughter again.

It was Oscar Dzundza that spoke, but The Golem that laughed. (Sherlock never would have realized the difference if he hadn't experienced the forced and false laughter directed at him before from another source.)

The Golem was just an act that Dzundza put on. _Monsters weren't real…_

"Laugh." Sherlock allowed, "Your Ms. Wenceslas sits in a prison cell for the crimes you both maintain she knew nothing about. Do you truly want to protect her or is that all just talk?"

The Golem stopped laughing.

Dzunda's eyes widened, Sherlock saw the visible shock on his face upon hearing the revelation that Wenceslas was incarcerated. The Golem was gone.

"I'll tell you everything." Dzundza offered, suddenly, "…if you let release her. I'll even go to prison in her place, if I must."

"Go on, then." Sherlock accepted, waving a hand (with a gun in it) as a gesture for him to continue speaking.

"I know how you think it is…but you're wrong."

"Oh?"

"I was never a hitman for the government. I worked for the Wenceslas family. I was an orphan, left behind when they expelled all the Poles from the country. They took me in when no one else would, when everyone else called me a_ 'freak' _and a _'monster' _for being so tall. The Wenceslases were my family, Sofie is my sister—like I said, it's not how you think it is."

"I see…"

"And like you said, the Wenceslases were charged, long ago, with protecting the Czech people. Those that I killed in Prague—Slovak nationalist terrorists, foreign spies, criminals—all of them were a danger to the country and its native people. By killing them, I was repaying my debt to the Wenceslas family."

"So you were _their _hitman. But why adopt 'The Golem' persona? It's not just because of your height, is it? Or because of the local legend?"

Dzundza took a breath, closing his eyes and smiling almost embarrassedly.

It was The Golem who spoke next, answering Sherlock's question with the answer Sherlock had already deduced.

"No, it's not." He affirmed, now proud and matter-of-fact about what he had moments ago been ashamed to admit, "The legend is Jewish. And the Jews…they're a threat to the Czech people, as well."

Sherlock smirked, pleased to have been correct and especially to have been correct about the hypocrisy of a less intelligent mind (now _proven_ less intelligent).

"And so, indirectly, they became linked to every one of the murders you committed." Sherlock interpreted, "Became further isolated and mistrusted by the rest of the population."

"Yes." The Golem stated, in bitter triumph, "Yes…" Dzundza repeated, with a sigh and a nod.

Sherlock chuckled.

(He had also enjoyed the confliction and change of emotions on The Golem (Oscar Dzundza)'s face. Something he'd only just recently learned to appreciate.)

"So, how did you go from killing 'enemies' of the Czech people in the Czech Republic, to killing a security guard and an astronomy professor in London?" Sherlock inquired.

"The Wenceslases were wealthy before the country split." Dzundza explained, "Afterwards, they had nothing. Sofie came to England to start over. She was working in that gallery when a man named Daniel Amberley from the United States visited and told her where Nazis had hidden the treasures they'd stolen during World War Two in Argentina. She thought if she found the treasure and sold it, she could make back the money her family lost."

"So she travelled to Argentina?

"Yes, and I went with her. We went to the place Amberley told us about, but the people there had nothing but forged paintings."

"The 'people there' including an old man, I assume? The painter."

"The people called themselves 'the Durandos'. We never saw any old man. Amberley said that there would be Nazis still alive there, but they had all already died. We thought we had come there for nothing, but a man and his son made a deal with us to sell the forgeries."

"The 'lost Vermeer'."

"Yes."

"But there had to have been an original painting, the one that the forgeries were copied from—whoever copied them."

"We never saw the original. But we told Amberley about what we did have and he immediately offered to buy the painting, even though he knew it was a fake."

"You didn't sell it to him?"

"No. At that point, Sofie and I realized we'd been tricked. Amberley had sent us on the wild goose chase to find Nazis in the swamp when really the only reason he hadn't gone to the Durandos himself is because they refused to even speak with him so he couldn't get the forged paintings himself. Besides, the deal we had with the Durandos was going to make us more money— that is, until you discovered the painting was forged."

"You can thank Jim Moriarty for that, Mr. Dzundza."

Dzundza scowled.

"I knew we shouldn't have trusted him. You can't trust anyone who refuses to show his face."

"So, all this to confirm that it was indeed Ms. Wenceslas who hired you—"

"She didn't _'hire'_ me."

"_Prompted_ you, then. It was for her that you killed the guard and the professor, not for Jim Moriarty."

"Yes. They were going to reveal that the painting was forged and make us lose all the money. Killing them prevented that…but only for you and Moriarty to do the same thing, apparently."

Sherlock nodded, in affirmation of the statement and appreciation of being recognized.

He then asked, "During your kill, who interrupted you so that you were unable to strip the body as usual?"

"It was you and short blond man." Dzundza answered, confused to why Sherlock would ask when he himself was the answer.

Sherlock paused, holding his breath for the smallest of seconds as he tensed.

_(John.) _

"…No, I mean when you were killing the man." He rephrased, quickly afterwards, "The security guard."

"I don't know." Dzundza replied, "After killing the guard on the bridge, I saw someone taking pictures with of me their phone so I pushed the body into the river and ran."

"Oh." Sherlock accepted.

(It wasn't difficult for him to 'deduce' who had been the one taking the pictures. Secretly following the hitman and watching the murder, only 'accidently' revealing himself just in time for the hitman to leave the clothing (clues) on the freshly dead body.)

He was silent long enough for Dzundza to speak up.

"Are those your only questions?" he questioned, "Because you've come a very long way for information you could've gotten in England from Sofie Wenceslas whom you claim to have in prison."

"Yes it is." Sherlock agreed, "And I do have one more question."

Dzundza raised an eyebrow, "Ask." He said.

"Are you willing to do one more job as an assassin?" Sherlock did.

"Yes." The Golem smiled.

* * *

When Jim awoke for a second time in a hospital bed, he found that he was in a different standard hospital room (of the same hospital).

_Alone._

The room was dark and so in the dark he easily slipped off the handcuff. For comfort only for he knew he wouldn't be able to walk yet.

He was beginning to feel the sting radiating from his knee, like volts of electricity splitting his bone into sharp shards over and over again.

And his arm now pounded pain with each of his heartbeats.

Both wounds felt as though the bullet was still inside, although Jim knew very well that they weren't.

Wondering why he'd been moved, Jim looked over to the uncurtained window beside his hospital bed. It was the only source of light into the small room, and he saw that the orange sun was setting outside.

Soon it would be completely dark.

Jim needed an_ escape_…or at least a _distraction._

It arrived in the form of Alois who, about ten minutes after Jim had awoken in the dark, opened the door to the hospital room, allowing light from the hallway to shine in.

Despite his pain, Jim smiled upon seeing his former 'friend'. He planned to charm (or threaten, if necessary) Alois into helping him escape the hospital.

But his 'friend' did not smile.

Alois stepped forward from the doorway, the door closing behind him and leaving the room in darkness once again.

"They told me they moved you here." He began, face expressionless and hard to see due to the dim lighting, "They had to…after I told them who you were."

"I'm sure they're very grateful for that." Jim drawled, "It's annoying not knowing somebody's real name, isn't it?"

"Yes it is." Alois affirmed, "Which is why I'll never tell you my new one."

He strode (in what passed in the dark for confidence) across the room to stand next to the hospital bed in which Jim lay.

"Oh, don't be silly." Jim scoffed up at him, "You'll always be bright-eyed little Ally to me. Always trying to be good, right the wrongs of this world…and feeling _so guilty_ when you can't. _You know, I really do love your kind…"_

Jim smiled and sighed, sinking back into the synthetic softness of the mattress on the plastic hospital bed. He was thinking of someone else.

"I just came back from visiting my father." Alois stated, "You shot him."

"Well, you didn't like him very much anyway, did you?" Jim dismissed, "I'm surprised you visited him at all. I thought you weren't speaking to your parents anymore."

"I wasn't." Alois confirmed, "…but they've changed now. They're not going to live hidden away from everyone anymore."

"No they're not, they're going to live with the prison population of Argentina now." Jim concluded, grinning.

"The police aren't charging them." Alois countered, "It was part of the deal I made."

"You've been quite the busy businessman now, haven't you?" Jim patronized, "…is that why you're here, Al? To make a deal with the devil?"

Alois said nothing, face still blank.

…But _nervous._ There_ was_ some nervous there amongst all the nothing.

Jim could see it tugging at the corner of Alois's closed mouth, in his darting and widened eyes. It was flaring in his nostrils as he took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself and keep his resolve.

Jim kept smiling.

This, this was what he loved to see. _Nervousness. Fear._

_Emotion. _

The (second) best distraction. The best escape that _everyone else_ always tried to escape from.

Jim didn't feel the pain in his arm and leg anymore.

"…or have you come to _gloat?"_ Jim ventured, "Laugh at me because I was shot and I _'deserve'_ it? You know I do._ I_ know I do. So go on, do it. Gloat, laugh."

Alois remained still and silent.

(Really, he was getting just a bad as Moran!)

Jim stared up at him, intently, _just daring_ (begging) him to react.

He looked Alois and Alois, surprisingly, met his eyes and stared right back at him without blinking.

And then Jim realized.

No, _not _surprisingly. Not surprisingly at all. _Of course_ Alois would look him in the eyes. It _was_ the 'honorable' thing to do, after all, when one did this sort of thing.

…_but how was he going to do it? _

The medicine, maybe? There was some sort of tube jabbed into Jim's right arm, delivering some sort of liquid into his blood stream….But for that to work, Alois would've had to know something about medicine and the young man had never even been to a real school, let alone had any medical training.

A pillow, perhaps?...no, he didn't have the strength or stamina for that, even if Jim _was_ weak and in pain. Even before Jim started fighting back, he'd lose his nerve.

He already had.

He looked away, eyes leaving Jim's to gaze in shame down at the floor.

Jim's grin widened.

"You know, I almost believed you had it in you. Just for a moment there. You really had me going. I was _scared._ I really thought you were going to do it…but _no._ You don't have it in you, Alois, and you never will."

"I'm not like you." Alois said, the standard response, still staring down at his shoes in the dark.

"Good, cause I like being unique." Jim replied.

"But you're _not."_ Alois disagreed, "There are too many people in this world that like to kill."

And Jim's smile fell, just a bit.

He decided to change the subject.

"Do you know why, out of all the crimes I've ever helped set up, I chose to reveal yours to my _dearest enemy, _the detective Sherlock Holmes?" Jim asked, not waiting for an answer he continued, "…I did it for _you._ To solve your parent problem. Fix it so they'd be arrested and you'd never have to see them again, since you _claimed _to hate them so much—it didn't work out the way I'd planned, of course, but it's the thought that counts."

_There._ That ought to make Alois feel guilty, blame himself…

"I never hated them." Alois said, "And I never wanted them punished."

"But you wanted me punished?" Jim checked, "That's why you went to the police. That's why you came here to 'visit' with the intention of killing me."

"You were right, you _do_ deserve it…." Alois nodded, "But punishing you wouldn't fix all the lives you've broken."

"But it would give you the _satisfaction." _Jim smirked, "…and trust me, Al, there are people lining up for that. You're passing up the perfect opportunity. One others would _kill _for—_literally."_

At a loss for words, Alois grimaced in disgust, turning and starting away.

"Wait!" Jim called after him, so automatically he surprised himself as well as Alois who jerked automatically to a stop.

The sun had finally set and Jim didn't want to be left alone in the dark.

"…What?" Alois sighed, turning back around to face him.

Now Jim had to say something that would keep Alois in the room. Provoking him into trying to kill him obviously wasn't working, Alois was just too non-confrontational for that...

…but not for _pity. _

Jim's smile fell completely, curling into a grimace of carefully-measured pain. Like most of Jim's expressions it was exaggerated, but because of the dim lighting in the room it was believable.

"….my girlfriend. Molly…" Jim said, softly, "…where is she? Is she alright? Did the police take her?"

"Yes." Alois informed, quickly and curtly, "The police took her."

He knew_ logically_ that Jim was faking it…but_ emotionally_ he heard the voice and saw the face of a person concerned about a loved one. A human being, Alois reacted. He tried to hide the pity on his face.

Jim tried to his the amusement on his.

"But she did nothing wrong!" Jim exclaimed, balancing anguish with the anger a man would feel when his woman was threatened.

"She fell in love with you." Alois commented, almost laughing bitterly to himself. He then felt bad and so added, "…I doubt you actually care about her and if you do, then you know she's better off without you."

"I care about her just not about _that."_ Jim conditioned, returning to his standard conversational and slightly taunting tone, "…So tell me, why do _you _care?"

"I _don't,_ I'm just saying." Alois answered.

"No, you do care. You do." Jim disagreed, shaking his head, "...You would've walked away by now if you didn't. There's something you care about, something you want to 'get off your chest'…confess your love to me, maybe?"

Now Alois did laugh bitterly to himself, also shaking his head.

"You think you're so smart but you're not." He declared, "You were fooled, just like the rest of them. Just like the American, just like the Czech woman and the tall man. Just like everyone in London who would've paid a lot of money for a 'lost Vermeer' painting."

"What? That there never was an 'old man'?" Jim inquired, then bluffing, "…I knew that all along."

Alois snorted.

"Of course there was an old man." He said, "He was my grandfather. He's the one who taught me how to paint, who inspired me to love it. He took care of me when I was young while my parents were busy and everyone else had already left."

"So how was I 'fooled', then?" Jim asked.

"You believed the act." Alois smirked, "And it was always all just an act, _'Napoleon',_ you saw it for yourself today."

"Oh?"

"My parents—the 'Durandos' like they call themselves—were never powerful people, their 'community' was never thriving, they're weak and they have nothing…and yet, for as long as I can remember, they've always put on a 'show' whenever anyone came to visit. Act like everything was perfect. _Talked_ like it too."

Alois took a breath before continuing while Jim settled comfortably (or as comfortably as one can settle after being shot twice) into his hospital bed, knowing that this was going to be a long story.

(Well, at least he had a distraction from the pain now.)

"They hid us in the woods, acting like we were secret, but made sure that the rumors spread throughout the city about their 'influence' over the government and criminal activity. In reality, they were the ones being influenced. Corrupt officials and businessmen, even actual criminal organizations…all of them sponsored my parents, and in exchange, used the 'Durandos' as a cover for their crimes."

Jim smiled.

"Blame the Nazis, eh?"

Alois nodded solemnly.

"_Yes._ We sometimes attended fancy parties at mansions or state buildings or museums, dressed up in clothing we didn't buy. We always showed up late and when we walked in, a hush would fall over the room. The hosts had told everyone who we 'were' and everyone always believed…but it was never _real."_

Jim adjusted himself to sit upright, realizing the direction in which Alois's story was headed. His physical pain was a dull murmur compared to the pain of feeling stupid.

"Around the same time that I decided that I was never going to speak to my parents again, the people who were selling the paintings got arrested." Alois continued, "Our former benefactors had long since lost power and stopped helping us, and now my parents had no way of selling the paintings. I wanted to get away from them but I didn't want to leave them with nothing…"

"And so that's where I came in." Jim recognized, "Even though I made you look stupid in front of all your arty friends and got you kicked out of their clique, you still asked for my help."

"I didn't have anyone else to go to." Alois explained, "I knew you'd have the connections to help my parents but I had to get you interested. That's why I told you everything, about who my family was, why I didn't want to talk to them and why I'd joined the human rights group to make up for what they'd done. I'd never told anybody else before. And you believed me."

"That's because it was true."

"You also believed me when I told you that my parents were the biggest crime bosses in the city. That they had the authorities in their pocket and all the other criminals under their control."

Jim sighed, smiling dismissively (embarrassedly).

"Well, it _was_ a nice story…" he admitted, "Rumors all backed it up, even international art dealer Amberley had already heard of the Durandos when I hired him to sell your paintings."

"We'd heard of him, too." Alois recalled, "Everyone knew Mr. Amberley was in South America looking for Nazi treasure. They told him what he wanted to hear so he'd keep spending money. My parents hated him, though. Asked too many questions. They refused to work with him or even meet him. That's why I hired those boys to work for my parents as middlemen once I left."

"Who are they?" Jim asked, "Your friendly neighborhood Neo Nazis?"

"They were dropouts with no other way of making money." Alois answered, "The tattoos and the shaved heads, that was all just for the job…They believed who I told them they would be working for because they were young and didn't know better…They weren't loyal to me, though, since I wasn't the one paying them anymore."

"That's hired muscle for you." Jim sympathized, with a laugh, then inquiring, "…but none of that explains the ruse about the old man."

"You're supposed to be some kind of 'criminal genius'." Alois stated, "Can't you figure it out?"

The realization dawned in Jim's mind as a genuine smile of satisfaction grew across his face.

_Yes. Of course. _

He sat up.

"Amberley the conspiracy theorist…" Jim chuckled.

"After you'd left, I met with him." Alois recounted, "We had run out of the old forgeries the old man had painted before he'd died, and although I'm just as good as he was—maybe even_ better_—I didn't want anyone to know I was the one making them. I didn't want to be a criminal…"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"…so I told him that the 'old man' was still alive, still the one painting the forgeries." Alois continued, "Mr. Amberley already had all sorts of suspicions about who 'the Durandos' were; some true, some not…I knew what he thought, _who_ he thought my grandfather was. And when he asked to meet him and I said that he couldn't, Mr. Amberley got even more suspicious. He followed me one day, trying to find out where my parents live. After that, I decided we couldn't work with him anymore and had the guards make sure he left us alone. But because we'd stopped working with him, we were unable to sell all the 'lost Vermeers' you saw today."

"And that's when Ms. Wenceslas and her Golem arrive." Jim completed.

"They came a month later, Mr. Amberley told them where our home was." Alois confirmed, "…but they actually helped us. Ms. Wenceslas agreed to sell the forged painting and everything was going well—until_ you_ told that detective about us."

"Sorry." Jim grinned, unapologetically.

"Don't be." Alois responded, "I'm actually glad you did. After I saw what happened to those who got caught, I felt so lucky. I knew I had been spared so that I could change my life and be better."

To that Jim chortled politely with his mouth behind his hand, nodding as if he agreed.

He then asked, "But if all the real paintings had been traded for entry into Argentina and all the forgeries had already been sold, what did you copy the litter of 'lost Vermeers' from? Was there ever an original?"

"Yes there was." Alois answered, "It was an old photograph, something my grandfather brought with him from Europe. I found it with his art supplies. I don't know when it was taken or where."

"Somebody could chart the stars and find out." Jim considered, offhandedly.

(Somebody like Sherlock Holmes.)

"That's why you should've known it was fake, that there never was an original." Alois declared, "That's why _everyone_ should've known. An artist never would have painted the stars so perfectly—never _could _have. Painting like that takes time and the stars change position in the sky ever night..."

"...but not in a photo." Jim finished.

It made sense. It really did. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why hadn't _Sherlock?_

At least the fact that Sherlock hadn't figured it out made it okay that Jim hadn't.

(Jim had expected Sherlock to figure out that the painting was forged, because Johannes Vermeer couldn't have possibly had painted a picture of that town on the bank of the Delft as the town had been destroyed when a gunpowder store exploded prior to when the painting was supposedly painted.)

"Not in a photo." Alois repeated, then adding "…Besides, I'm not a _real_ artist, anyway."

"You're not?" Jim tested, raising an eyebrow at the self-deprecation.

"No, I'm just a copyist." Alois explained, "I can mimic things perfectly, make them look real, fool everyone around me…but I can never create something of my own and so I'll never be anything more than a fake."

Jim took a breath as if he was breathing in the words.

Alois hadn't been self-deprecating. No, he had just been trying to indirectly insult Jim in a way that would actually _work._

Calling Jim a 'criminal' or a 'killer' didn't seem to bother the criminal killer. But calling him a _'fake'…_

Alois expected to see at least the hint of a hidden frown on Jim's face. Just something small to prove that he was human and could be hurt.

So far the man had been shot twice, was sitting in a hospital bed and didn't look as if he was in any pain!

It caused Alois to wonder if monsters were real after all.

" '_Art'_ isn't real." Jim said evenly, _emotionlessly,_ "…It's just escapism. _A pain killer._ It doesn't solve the problem, it only dulls the symptoms. People have nothing and they think that they could never have it all. They're too afraid to go out and try to take what they want. They're miserable. So they make art. They 'express themselves' all the while doing _absolutely nothing _to change their worthless little lives."

"That's not true!" Alois exclaimed, "Art can be used for change, like HUNGER uses it. Used to make things better, draw the public's attention to important causes."

He'd attempted to insult Jim, but now felt insulted by Jim himself.

"Shock value." Jim snorted, "The public doesn't care, they just like to be entertained. They spend all day reading and watching telly. They're bored and they do nothing. Just live their lives through other people—people who don't even really exist, half the time."

Alois opened his mouth to protest, but Jim wasn't done yet. Alois closed his mouth and folded his arms in order to listen.

This was real emotion emitting from Jim. Alois had finally been able to bait it out of him.

_Now, if only he could make Jim feel as ashamed and humiliated about being tricked and committing crimes as he did…_

"And artists are no better." Jim continued, "They see what's missing in their lives, in this world and instead of making it real they just draw pretty pictures and write happy stories about the perfect lives in the perfect worlds they wished they lived in."

"You can't create perfection in the real world." Alois reminded, almost wistfully, "Everybody's definition of perfect is different and trying to force one definition of perfect on the world only creates destruction."

He paused to remember a war he hadn't learned about until visiting a library in the city on his own for the first time at fifteen.

Jim smirked, taking quickly using his own voice to fill the silence he hated.

"That's what I do." He stated, proudly, "I'm not an artist, I'm _better._ The world is my clay and I mold it into whatever I want it to be. I mold _myself_ into whatever I want to be._ I'm a god."_

Alois blinked.

At first, he'd thought it was more of Jim's jokes and lies but Alois could soon tell that he was serious.

He really believed that about himself, he really _was_ crazy…

Alois couldn't help but laugh.

He tried to make it sound cruel and jeering but it just ended up sounding forced and false.

(And the taunting sneer looked just as strange and unnatural as it would have on another naturally kind and guilty face Jim knew well.)

"Laugh." Jim allowed, waving a hand as a gesture of blessing, "I could have you dead in ten minutes, you know."

That was a lie.

Yesterday it probably would have been true, but today it was a lie.

Alois kept laughing.

Not because he actually found anything funny (no, more like _sickening)_ but just because he saw how agitated his laughter was making Jim.

When this conversation was over (very soon, hopefully, it had gone on too long now already) Alois knew he'd be in the nearest bathroom vomiting.

"What's so funny?!" Jim finally snapped, expecting some kind of _'oh, how the mighty have fallen'_ speech.

"You were lucky today." Alois said, "You'll die if you keep living like this."

"Now who says I don't want that?" Jim returned, his wry calm also returned.

Alois swallowed. He knew what he wanted to say to Jim but he didn't say it. Instead, he turned silently and exited the dark room.

Jim's laughter, forced and false, chased after him but it was gone when the door slammed shut behind him.

Alois did pity Jim. He knew that if he were Jim Moriarty he would want to die, too.

* * *

Anthea kept her fingernails polished but clear and short so she could type on her smartphone (or, occasionally, an actual computer).

But now her smartphone was gone and her normally clean fingers were polished—no _stained_—with it's clear, invisible blood.

Because the phone wasn't just 'gone', it was dead. It was dead and Anthea had been the one to kill it.

Tapping her fingers impatiently against the metal table at which she sat across from Molly, Anthea mourned.

"Could you stop, please?" Molly finally requested after over a minute, lifting her head up to face Anthea from where she'd had it down and in her arms, resting on the cold table.

"Sorry," Anthea apologized, continuing to tap, "….without my phone I feel…_incomplete."_

Molly stared at her for a moment (an expression somewhere between disbelief, confusion and exasperation on her tired face), before dropping her head back down onto the uncomfortably hard metal and arms below.

They'd been locked in this interrogation room for at least six hours.

It was probably the middle of the night by now.

Molly listened to the tapping until she fell asleep.

(In her sleep, she dreamed that Sherlock arrived and explained everything, instantly fixing all the problems for all involved, even for Jim. Everyone forgave each other and became friends. They went home to London where they all lived happily ever after.

Even in her dream, Molly knew this was too good to be true and so she woke up.)

When she awoke, she was being pulled to her feet out of the metal chair by a police officer and upon opening her eyes she saw the same occurring to Anthea.

They were dragged out of the interrogation room into a hall where John and Lestrade were also being dragged out of an identical interrogation room into the hall.

The four were then marched down this hall, through the entire Buenos Aires police station until they had exited the building.

Outside they were rushed into police cars, sirens already blaring, that rushed them through the traffic of the city all the way to an isolated airstrip just outside of Buenos Aires occupied by only one small plane.

In front of it stood Mycroft Holmes.

(Of course.)

Molly, Anthea, John and Lestrade had been careful to remain silent their entire journey and when the police sirens stopped, they heard ambulance sirens replace the sound as an ambulance joined the plane and two police cars on the isolated airstrip.

It silenced its sirens when it parked, backdoors opening so that a hospital employee could push Jim down the ramp in a wheelchair and Moran could limp down after him using crutches, pushing any employee that attempted to help him away.

Everyone stood quietly and awkwardly, for a moment, until all the Argentinians returned to their vehicles and drove away, leaving the Britons (and one man who would insist upon 'Irish') alone on the airstrip.

Without the flashing lights that accompanied the siren, and without all the light pollution from the nearby city, they could all see the dark sky above. Unclothed by clouds, it was full of bright stars.

"Say nothing." Mycroft warned the group, "Just get on the plane."

He was calm on the outside, yes, but inside there was an angry storm. Even the slightest of annoyances would draw it out now.

So before anyone could say anything, Mycroft turned and climbed up the stairs onto the airplane himself.

Anthea was the first to follow, then followed by Lestrade and then John (who took one last wary glare back at Jim and Moran before entering).

Molly hurried over to Jim in the wheelchair. Meanwhile, Moran and his crutches made their way slowly towards the plane.

Molly waited until he was inside to start pushing Jim after him. He wasn't looking at her, instead staring straight ahead into space like he was thinking (or completely braindead).

Molly was too afraid to start talking after Mycroft had told everyone not to, but she'd assumed that Jim would eagerly disobey that order.

He didn't.

And Molly knew that Jim not talking was never a good sign.

She wanted to ask about his injuries, how they'd been treated, and how severe his pain was but she said nothing and he said nothing.

When Molly had finally managed to get Jim (and the wheelchair) onto the airplane, she wheeled him to the very back and helped him into a seat far away from everyone else (who'd glared at them as they'd passed), afterwards sitting down next to him herself.

He was still staring blankly, and although all other eyes in the plane were _pretending _to be politely averted, Molly could see their corners watching Jim (and her).

She decided to look out the window into the dark. She closed her eyes when she saw her own reflection, leaning her head against the window and going back to sleep.

John and Lestrade sat near each other but not next to each other, in two rows across from each other.

They glanced, every once in a while, at one another almost as uneasily as their stared at those they openly mistrusted (everyone on the plane (but especially Jim)) and saw as a threat.

Their partnership to find and kill Moriarty was effectively over; their mission, a failure.

_(…but what about their friendship…?)_

Frustrated with the entire situation (which he had only just found out about a few hours ago), Mycroft had no desire to sit with the 'general population' of the plane.

The airplane was small but it did have a division between 'classes'. As if part of their 'punishment' Jim, Molly, Anthea, John, Lestrade and Moran had been made to sit in the cramped back section.

Anthea found Mycroft in the very first seat in the more spacious and comfortable front section….

…as well as all of the guns, phones and bulletproof vest-jackets (neatly folded) that had been confiscated by the Argentine authorities. They sat in the rows behind him on seats like passengers, each 'seatbelted' by their own plasticbag.

Anthea could see the remains of her dead smartphone in one of these clear bags.

It looked clean and normal, like most dead bodies that had been poisoned looked. All the damage was on the inside. The code Anthea had typed into her phone upon arrest, had permanently erased all its data and rendered it incapable of even ever being turned on again.

Indeed the phone was dead.

And next to its clear plastic coffin and its plane-seat grave, was a pile of mass-produced 'lost Vermeer' forgeries.

Why Mycroft had collected them, too, Anthea did not know.

Maybe that meant what Jim had said about Sherlock hiring him to get the real lost Vermeer had been true…

…or maybe it just meant he wanted to decorate his new secret prison.

Either way, it hardly mattered now.

"So how did you find us?" she asked her employer.

"The embassy called after being informed by the local police that six British citizens had been arrested." Mycroft explained, not turning to face her.

From the reflection visible in the window a seat away from him, Anthea could see that his eyes were closed.

"…and what did you have to give to get us back?" she followed-up.

Mycroft sighed.

"Do you really want to know?" he asked.

To which Anthea nodded, "Yes."

"…The sovereignty of the Falklands."

* * *

**Kill me, I couldn't help it.**

**I'm sorry. **

**I'm really stupid and really sleepy. I need to sleep.**

**I also need reviews, please…**

**The stuff about the Wenceslases being the protectors of the Czech people is basically true (according to Wikipedia). There was a king or a saint (or both) by that name.**

**Oh no! **

**More conspiracy-history! **

**Here we go again…**

**Standard Oil was an American oil and gas company owned by John D. Rockefeller that had a monopoly on the oil industry in the US. **

**(David Rockefeller, his grandson, established the Trilateral Commission between the US, Europe and Japan.) **

**Standard Oil was broken up into many local smaller companies by Supreme Court order, but later those companies merged to form or were absorbed into the major companies of ExxonMobil, Chevron and BP that own them all today. **

**ExxonMobil is the richest company on the planet. **

**(Second richest is Royal Dutch Shell, Standard Oil's oldest competitor (but it's not involved in this particular 'conspiracy'.))**

**BP is 6th richest and Chevron is 9th. **

**These companies in their current and former incarnations have been drilling for oil since industrialization (1800's) all over the world—including the Middle East. **

**Control of the Middle East (as well as any area with oil) has been the most important objective of the richest people since modern times. Those richest people happen not to be Middle Easterners (nor of their culture or religion) and so violence to get this oil is used when necessary. **

**Desert Storm, the Iraq War, even Afghanistan, they were all wars fought for oil, the resource that generates money and industrialization—and keeps the people wealthy and in power, well, wealthy and in power. **

**That's why the Iraqis burned the oil wells when they fled Kuwait in the 90's. They didn't want their enemies to be even more powerful. Why did Iraq want Kuwait in the first place? So it could have the oil. **

**Condoleezza Rice, former Secretary of State for George Bush was on Chevron's board of directors.**

**Former Vice President Dick Cheney was chairman and CEO of Halliburton.**

**What is Halliburton? **

**It's a company that provides protection and supplies for oil companies to drill for oil.**

**It used to own KBR, the company that provides the private military and security support for oil companies. KBR has also been a US government contractor since World War Two and participated in every invasion of the Middle East by the US. **

**KBR was founded in 1901 by Morris Kellogg in New York.**

**Also in New York during the Industrial Revolution, Milo Kellogg bought up a bunch of smaller telephone and telegraph companies to create Kellogg Switchboard & Supply Company that manufactured switchboards. **

**In 1951 ITT Corporation, a larger rival, purchased it. (Remember ITT Corporation from last chapter? )**

**ITT Corporation was founded by US Colonel Sosthenes Behn and his brother Hernand in 1920 by buying the telephone companies of Puerto Rico and Cuba, then many European (Belgium, Britain, Germany) telephone companies from Western Electric, another American company that temporarily owned Kellogg Switchboard & Supply Company and then finally more American companies. **

**They made and controlled communication systems like telephones, telegraphs and radios all over the Western world. **

**But the Behns were Nazi sympathizers and helped the Nazis before and during World War Two by working with Hitler paying the leader of the SS and manufacturing Nazi planes. **

**(Yet despite this, they still won a 25 million dollar settlement from the US government for damage to their factories in Germany done during the war in the 1960's.) **

**Also, **

**Hilary Clinton was on the Wal-Mart board of directors and so was this Nigerian Scottish guy nobody's ever heard of named John O. Agwunobi who was assistant secretary for health in the US 2005 to 2007. **

**Just to say that everybody high up in the government and the military comes from big business, as most of these people also had military educations before going into business, then the government, and then back into the private sector again. **

**That really doesn't have much do with this story, it's just very interesting. **

**I say it's a "conspiracy" but it's really not because all the information is out there and it's all perfectly legal for this to be going on. **

**I hope you liked this chapter, please review!**


	26. Roll Call

**They do 'roll calls' at prisons, apparently they call it 'register' in the UK but 'register' doesn't fit with the content of the chapter. **

**Well, it's been awhile (as usual). How is everybody? **

**A short, but necessary chapter. **

**Not strictly 'filler'. **

**I hope you all like it.**

**:)**

* * *

Irene Alder was a dominatrix.

Bound and gagged was her thing—just as long as _she _was _not _the one bound and gagged.

…and just as long as it was sexual, too.

In this situation, however, Irene _was_ the one bound and gagged and it was _not_ sexual.

As it turned out, asking questions to shady Colombian businessmen about dead people named Ian Monkford was a dangerous thing to do in this South American country.

Irene's plan was to introduce herself as an investor interesting in investing in the international banking company that Ian Monkford supposedly worked for in Medellin.

But when she had said, in English, that she was an 'investor', the banking company's regional boss had heard 'investigator' and believing that Irene was an undercover Interpol agent come to investigate the company for corruption, he immediately had his uniformed guards escort Irene out of the top floor office with a beautiful view of the mountains on one side and the city on the other…

…and into the back of a white van that was carrying her further and further away from that city, towards those mountains.

Irene, of course, couldn't see where she was going as she was blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back and some wadded up fabric shoved in her mouth.

First, she spit that out and then her wrists went to work wrenching themselves out of the tight grip of the rope.

It took ten minutes and chafed her skin, but once her hands were free she used them to take the blindfold off of her eyes so she could see.

_Nothing. _

The back of the van was dark, with the windows on its doubledoors painted over with black paint.

There was no point in trying to escape, though, anyway. Irene felt that the van was moving fast enough that jumping from it would cause her head to shatter on the highway pavement while her body was run over by the other vehicles on the road.

Still, the guards had been stupid enough not to take her cellphone from her (thinking that being tied up would prevent her from using it) and so she was able to use it as a flashlight.

She would have used it as it was intended to be used, but the phone was 'roaming' and currently unable to get a signal.

And that was when Irene realized that the van must have been driving towards the mountains, far away from civilization.

* * *

Molly was shocked to learn that Mycroft Holmes's new secret prison was in the middle of a populated urban area instead of isolated location in the middle of nowhere.

An apartment building under construction.

They were 'greeted' (stared at) by black-suited men, watching them with faces so expressionless it was almost as if they had no faces at all. As if they were really the drones of the hivemind they were trained to be.

Molly remembered when Sebastian Moran used to be like that.

Now he was walking with crutches, a cast on his leg and a scowl on his face.

He didn't care anymore.

It was Jim Moriarty's face that was expressionless now.

He never did. He'd just stopped pretending to now.

For _most people_ it took effort to hide emotions. Jim was not most people. For _Jim_ it took effort to show them. To fake them and to feel them.

Molly pushed him in the wheelchair, mud sloshing everywhere (it was raining when they got out of the small plane back in London, and drizzling now that as got out of the black cars in front of the 'construction site'), splashing onto her pants so that the fresh mud stains matched the old dried blood stains, both an ugly and dirty brown.

It was midafternoon, but the clouds in the sky made it darker and so seem later.

John and Lestrade also walked towards the apartment building, glancing up at its boarded-up windows and glancing around at the dangerous-looking construction equipment, idle dragons guarding the castle.

They hadn't spoken or sat together on the airplane, but now with all the black-suited employees surrounding them in this strange setting, they stuck together like scared soldiers in enemy territory (which, basically, they were).

Anthea lead this group of Molly, Jim, Moran, John and Lestrade towards the apartment-prison.

Mycroft was not among them because he was not going to walk across the mud in the rain.

He met them inside (after he'd driven to another (drier) door and after _they'd _gone through the full-body scanners) in a ground level flat that had been converted into an office of offwhite cubicles.

This office was where Mycroft kept all the black-suited women (some in skirtsuits, some in pantsuits), who worked at the desks inside these cubicles and exited the room so that Mycroft could talk to his prisoners (?) in privacy.

(Mycroft Holmes did have this _thing_ about talking to prisoners alone. Sure, the employees thought it was dangerous and stupid but who were they to question their boss?)

"I'll want an explanation of what just happened in Argentina and what you all could have possibly been thinking…" Mycroft began, standing before and addressing the others, "…but first, we all know what has to happen."

He looked towards Jim, who was staring off into space and sitting in the wheelchair (which had tracked a trail of mud onto the carpet).

At that, a male employee in a black uniform entered the office and approached Jim.

"He isn't a trustworthy source and, anyway, he doesn't seem in much of talking mood right now." Mycroft added.

"Please step aside, Miss Hooper." The uniformed employee asked of Molly.

She was surprised, at first, that the man knew her name but quickly realized that every employee working for Mycroft most likely knew who she was.

Simultaneously, Molly felt herself automatically doing as she was told but just as quickly stopped herself from moving and stood firm.

"I won't let you just take him away like that." She declared, assuming that the black-suited man's orders were to wheel Jim away and then just shoot him dead in some back, soundproof room.

She tried to look the employee in the eye, but, trained to be impenetrable, he wouldn't make eye-contact.

"Don't make this any harder than it has to be, Miss Hooper." Mycroft sighed, dully, then adding more sharply, "I wasn't planning to have him killed…_don't _change my mind."

Molly turned to look him.

"I'll go with him, then." She suggested, "Just to make sure."

"We can't allow a male and a female to be in the same cell." Mycroft refused, "It would be _unprofessional."_

While trying to think of a retort to this, Molly glanced down at Jim, pleading for him to make some snarky comment or at least say something.

But he said nothing. He didn't even look at her.

"Just let him take him." Lestrade recommended, "Be thankful _you're_ not being arrested."

He smiled at her almost politely, as if he really believed he was giving necessary counsel to her poor, silly 'lost soul'.

She wondered if he had forgiven her…

…or if he just trusted her more than anybody else, save for John, in the room and so wanted her here (instead of arrested or with Jim wherever Mycroft planned to have him take) as support.

"Actually, she _is_ being arrested." Mycroft corrected.

"What?!" both Molly and Lestrade exclaimed, heads whirling around to face him.

"She helped a dangerous criminal flee the country." Mycroft justified, "She can't continue to go unpunished her part in Jim Moriarty's crimes."

"I didn't help him with any crimes!" Molly cried. It was cry that 'fell on deaf ears', specifically the deaf ears of Mycroft Holmes.

"Even so, you've been a nuisance." He stated, "Your boyfriend is in my custody now and I won't let you interfere with my operations."

At that (as if Mycroft had pre-planned when his employees would enter while he was driven to the other door (which he had)), a female employee re-entered the room.

She held Molly still while the male employee wheeled Jim out of the office. She then began to escort Molly out of the room after them.

Molly gave Lestrade a pleading look but all he did was shrug in polite but apathetic apology.

She almost looked to John, even, but saw his completely stone-faced expression, matching the expression of Mycroft's employees, and so looked away before she even made eye-contact.

Molly stared down at her feet and the muddy carpet, allowing herself to be led out of the room to whatever kind of prison she was going to be placed in.

Mycroft waited with a practiced patience (only slightly tapping a foot) as Molly and Jim were forced out of the office, a seemingly amicable expression on his face, also practiced and also false.

Once both Molly and Jim (and the two employees) were gone, Mycroft turned to the remaining people in the room.

Moran stood uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one crutch to the other every so often and glaring up at ceiling as if it was the god responsible for putting him in this situation that he really didn't want to be in.

Anthea had moved to stand near her boss… who had promptly moved away. She 'took the hint' and remained where she was, clasping her hands together and tapping her thumbs as if she was typing on a smartphone uncomfortably absent from her grasp.

John had his arms folded and was tapping both a hand and a foot in anger and impatience.

He spoke first in response to Mycroft's request.

"I think if anyone owes an explanation it's _you,_ Mycroft." He snapped, "You lied to us. You told us Moriarty was dead when he's really alive. You hired this killer," he pointed to Moran who rolled his eyes but didn't look at him, "for god knows why, because you didn't use him to kill _Moriarty._ And now you're keeping Moriarty alive and won't tell us why you're doing _that,_ either."

Mycroft took a breath before replying.

In that short moment, he almost—_almost_—broke down and told John the truth, told him everything.

All of this _had_ gone on too long, just like Sherlock had said, and constantly lying and making excuses was not only getting exhausting but also getting annoying.

_And of course,_ the day that Jim had conveniently finally been captured and John was conveniently here at the secret prison, was the one day Sherlock was inconveniently_ not_ around to reveal himself dramatically and set everything right.

No, Sherlock wasn't even in the _country._

Mycroft's employees had traced him to an airport in Slovakia (even though Sherlock had specifically demanded that Mycroft not have him followed) after which they had lost him in the woods.

((What Sherlock was doing there, Mycroft (or his employees) did not know. Perhaps it was some kind of ruse to throw his 'dogs' off Sherlock's trail, while Sherlock then went after John to Argentina (where John no longer even was.))

If Sherlock hadn't forced Mycroft to promise not to tell John he was alive so that he could tell John himself, then Mycroft would have told John now and then gone on to explain to him that he needed Jim alive to prove to Sherlock that he wasn't the one responsible for the death of Sherlock's first actual friend Victor Trevor because Jim was.

All wouldn't have been well, of course, but at least it would've been better.

"All in good time, John …" Mycroft stalled, weakly, halfheartedly.

John took one flat look at him that said _"really?"_, before giving up on even being angry (just as he had already given up on getting the truth out of Mycroft) and turning to go.

Stomping away he said, "You'll get my explanation when I get yours."

And then he was out the door (which slammed closed behind him).

Mycroft didn't bother to call or go after him.

"John's right." Lestrade agreed with John's sentiment of stomping out and slamming the door, "I'm not telling you anything unless you tell me what's going on. So I'm leaving—unless I'm under arrest too."

"You're not, you may go." Mycroft allowed with a sigh and a wave of a hand that afterwards massaged his forehead.

He didn't even watch as Lestrade left the office (he didn't slam the door but he didn't close it carefully either), knowing that some of his employees would follow both Lestrade and John just to make sure they didn't reveal the location of this prison to anyone.

Mycroft then added, "I suppose I should just get this over with now, as well, while we're at it."

Before the two remaining in the room with him could ask "what", two more black-suited men marched in from where they had been casually waiting outside for the order.

Moran sighed, rolling his eyes again.

"Well, I knew this would be coming so I'll go quietly." he acquiesced, anticipating what the black-suited men were there for, "I'd put my hands up, but…" he shrugged, indicating the crutches under his arms.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Moran." Mycroft said, "…as long as you behave yourself."

Moran didn't respond to that, he just gave Mycroft the same flat look John had given him and allowed himself to be ushered away by the black-suited employees.

Now alone in the room with her quietly angry employer, Anthea tried to remain as poised as possible.

"You wanted an explanation of what took place in Argentina, sir?" she offered.

"Yes I do." Mycroft affirmed, not turning to face her and instead continuing to stare at the door the three men had just exited out of, "I want to know why you decided it was a good idea to go off on a mission to a foreign country to find Jim Moriarty without telling me and bring along two people who aren't even supposed to know he is alive."

This delivered its desired effect of distance and disappointment. Were there black-suited employees waiting on the other side to come in and arrest Anthea as well?

She knew that was a possibility.

"Sir, there were 'extenuating circumstances'." She tried, "Besides, I did capture Jim alive for you, like you wanted."

"I believe it was the Buenos Aires police who did that, actually." Mycroft corrected, "Whom you and the others were also captured alive by, compromising our entire operation."

Now, he turned around to face her.

The tiny wrinkle of anger on his otherwise expressionless face told Anthea that she was most likely in for the terrible punishments whispered about among this secret division of the British government reserved for those who betrayed their boss' orders.

(She'd seen it happen before, too. There was an MOD man who had leaked official secrets to a dominatrix named Irene Adler during a 'recreational scolding' session.

(He had even _liked_ being tortured…well, until it became real.))

No.

Not if Anthea had anything to say about.

"They didn't get any information from any of us." Anthea said about it, "And I destroyed my phone."

"I know." Mycroft replied, "I received that along with the other items confiscated as evidence. I see you took a lesson from the deceased dominatrix and programmed your phone to destroy itself in case anyone unauthorized tried to access the information."

"Yes, but I didn't use explosives or chemicals…just numbers." Anthea explained, "It was a virus and I installed it years before the Adler scandal."

"How creative." Mycroft complimented.

Except it didn't _sound_ like a compliment. It sounded like a condemnation.

Anthea's plan wasn't working. Time to be more obvious about it.

"…but like Miss Adler, the contents of my phone were unique. There are no other copies of the data." She continued.

"Surely I didn't hire someone stupid enough not to make a backup." He disbelieved.

"No, you hired someone smart enough not to." Anthea corrected, "Now I'm the only one that has every piece of information you need to do your job."

"And you have that all memorized?" Mycroft tested, raising an eyebrow.

"_Yes."_ Anthea nodded, "I only stared at it all of my waking hours."

"Impressive." Mycroft complimented.

But again, it didn't sound like a compliment. It even sounded _sarcastic. _

So again, Anthea had to be even more obvious about what she meant.

"It means you can't fire me, you can't arrest me, you can't do anything to me." she declared.

At that, Mycroft just laughed.

It scared Anthea until he spoke.

"You thought I was going to fire you? I could never do that—it would be too much effort to find a competent and train replacement and I'd have no one to vet the person for me."

And Anthea was relieved.

…until he spoke again.

"No, I'm just going have you jailed for a while, that's all."

"Sir?!" was all Anthea was able to explain before two more black-skirtsuited employees joined her in the office.

Mycroft smiled.

"Consider this a 'time out' so you can learn your lesson not to go behind my back like that again. You'll be released in a few hours when you've proven you can behave like a responsible employee. Until then, just sit quietly and think about what you've done."

Instead of protesting, Anthea let herself be escorted from the room. At least she wasn't going to be tortured and executed.

Alone in the room, Mycroft decided it was time to go and deal with Jim Moriarty once and for all.

Once he got Jim to admit to murdering Victor Trevor (and all his friends that Sherlock didn't care about), he would call Sherlock to come back to London, hear Jim's confession (absolving Mycroft of the blame that caused the rift between he and his younger brother), and then tell John he was alive.

All the lies and insanity would finally come to an end.

The last one out of the room, Mycroft left the ground floor office and started through the halls of the secret apartment building prison.

* * *

Far away from civilization, the white van's back door opened to blind Irene with the light of sunny South American morning.

It matched the humid heat that already had her sweating and when her eyes adjusted to the level of light, Irene could see the almost invisible mist that put her view in soft-focus.

The mist in the air and the dew on the plants made the mountain look as if it was sweating, too.

These plants were mid-sized bushes planted and carefully tended in rectangular rows on terraces built into the side of the mountain like steps on a staircase, instead of trees growing naturally without the aid or rigid direction of human-beings.

Placed among these rows of plants were irrigation canals, watering them, and even sweatier farmers harvesting whatever these bushes produced into wooden baskets.

Cautiously, Irene exited the van into this unexpected agricultural scene, glancing around in search of the uniformed guards who had captured her.

Instead of them, a tan man in jeans and a tanktop (dirty and worn from work on this mountain farm) approached her.

He took one look at Irene's unbound hands and ungagged face, and pulled out a machete from the waistband of his jeans behind him.

Pointing it towards her he asked, "Estados Unidos or European?" in accented Spanglish.

"British." Irene revealed, "…I assume this is some sort of kidnapping scheme and you want a ransom for a rich foreigner."

"Yes." The man nodded.

"Then let's get this over with, shall we?" Irene agreed, reaching into the pocket of her now scuffed and dusty but formerly red blazer. She quickly added, "It's just a phone." When she saw him raise his machete, thinking she was pulling out a gun.

He lowered his machete and said, "No service here. Follow me."

Irene lowered her phone (which indeed had no service there) and followed him down the terraced hill of the mountain farm towards a small cinderblock building on the edge of a cliff with satellites and antennas sprouting out of it like weeds from a garden.

On the way down the white van drove past them on the dirt road, spraying mud and dust onto their clothing.

The tan man shrugged it off, unbothered.

Irene bristled uncomfortably, lamenting the further ruination of her outfit. Her black dress was now stained as well and her red heels were so caked with mud an extra half inch of height had been added.

The city of Medellin was visible from the mountain peak below, Irene could even see the skyscraper she'd been kidnapped from.

Glancing away from the view, Irene gazed around the farm. She was unable to get a close enough look at the bushes to confirm her suspicion about what was being grown but she did see something—or someone—she did not expect to.

Among the many tanned farm workers, there was one very sunburned one.

He had glanced up surprised and excitedly when he heard English being spoken and Irene immediately recognized his face as the face of the person Sherlock had sent her here to find.

Ian Monkford.

"Who is he?" Irene asked the tan man, pointing to Monkford.

"British, like you." the man identified, "He is here a year now. Nobody paid his ransom."

"I'll pay it." Irene offered.

The tan man raised an eyebrow.

"I will believe that when I see the money." He laughed.

"I will." Irene promised, stopping and attempting a pleading look (which wasn't very convincing coming from a woman who made her living whipping people) "…he's from my country. I have to help him."

(Actually, Sherlock had sent her here to shut Monkford up (permanently, if necessary) so that he would never reveal that Jim Moriarty (and so Sherlock Holmes) was real.)

The tan man seemed to accept this and so turned to where Monkford was tending to a bush on one of the terraces, calling over to him.

"You!"

"Me?"

Monkford pointed to himself in confusion.

"Si! You come here!"

The tan man beckoned to him by waving his machete.

Still confused, Monkford approached the tan man and Irene carefully.

"Yes…?" he asked.

"She is from your country." The tan man explained, gesturing to Irene who smiled, "She will pay your ransom, too."

"uh…thanks." Monkford thanked, smiling back at Irene (the first woman he'd seen in a very long time, as his wife had never come for him here like she'd promised and then he'd been kidnapped), "My name's Ian."

"I know." Irene replied, then turning away from him to follow the tan man who was continuing the mountain.

Monkford quickly followed after as well.

Inside the cinderblock building on the cliff at the bottom of the hill was a wooden table where various outdated electronic equipment, such as radios and scanners, sat blinking and buzzing.

There was also a phone attached to the wall.

A landline phone.

(The phonelines must have been underground as Irene had seen no telephone poles.)

The tan man pointed at it while pulling out a wooden chair to sit in himself when Irene and Monkford remained standing.

"Call who you need to call." He instructed, "I will tell them how to wire us the money."

Irene nodded.

She strode over to the landline phone on the wall (stomping the mud off her shoes as she stepped) and picked it up.

With a red-nailed finger, she dialed the number of Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had left a recording device in a cigarette pack that his older brother Mycroft Holmes had confiscated.

Sitting on a window-seat of an airplane taking him back to England, Sherlock had his laptop on his lap and his earbuds in his ear.

Although one was not supposed to access the internet while on an airplane, Sherlock accessed the internet so that he could listen to the live-feed of the recording device inside the cigarette pack…

…which apparently was still in Mycroft's pocket, although it had been a couple of days and changes of clothing.

(Sherlock had expected recordings of Mycroft's office and eventually of the trash being taken out, but apparently Mycroft took satisfaction (sentiment) in stealing his brother's cigarettes and so kept the pack with him at all times).

Sherlock could hear Mycroft's footsteps, and then his voice and the voices of other people and other people's footsteps (and the sound of, what were those, crutches?):

"_Mr. Moran, would you like a cigarette?"_

Mycroft's voice.

"_I don't smoke."_

Moran's voice.

"_Nonsense, I footage of you smoking in the stairwell of St. Bartholomew's hospital."_

Mycroft's voice again.

"…_I only did that to distract your brother so he wouldn't notice that I had a suitcase with a sniper rifle inside."_

Moran's voice again.

"_I know."_

Mycroft's voice _and _chuckling.

Sherlock continued to listen, now realizing why Mycroft had really kept the cigarette pack.

"_Hey! What the hell?! Why do you have him imprisoned here?!" _

Moran's voice. Shouting.

"_He was caught trying to sell classified Bruce-Partington Plans to terrorist enemies of the British government." _

"_Those plans were stolen years ago, you know they're worthless now!" _

"_Still treason." _

"_You're a liar, Holmes. You and my employer had a deal! The only reason I was working for you is so that he would go free—"_

"_Your employer? I thought you'd quit working for him after your little argument." _

"_You know that fight was fake. Let me go right now. If you have him in custody, you don't need me!" _

"_Do I need to remind you, Mr. Moran, that attempting to use crutches as weapons and subsequently getting shot in the head is a very poor idea?" _

"_Just shut up. I'm not going to try to escape. I'm not stupid."_

"_Of course not. Oh, and by the way, I wouldn't worry about your former employer. I've already worked out a deal with him for his release. So it seems as if our old agreement is still unbroken and you will be spending an indefinite amount of time in my custody."_

"…_whatever." _

Sherlock heard the sound of a door closing and being locked, and then the sound of Mycroft's footsteps walking away.

He did not hear the sound of his cellphone ringing (when it was supposed to be on 'airplane mode' disconnected from any network).

* * *

Irene removed the phone connected by a cord to the wall from her ear, turning back to where the tan man sat on the wooden chair at the wooden table.

"…he didn't answer." She said.

"Then call someone who will." The tan man warned.

"Alright." Irene agreed.

Again, she lifted the phone so that she could dial. This time, it was the number of Jim Moriarty.

* * *

Jim Moriarty's phone had long been confiscated, he'd gone over an entire month without it now which was beyond unthinkable in this modern age.

Mycroft found him on one of the higher floors of the apartment-prison (which had no elevator and so employees had had to carry Jim in the wheelchair up multiple flights of stairs), the _unofficial_ floor which had not been converted (windows filled in, heavier locks put on the doors, guards installed in the room) and housed only one prisoner.

(He went by the name 'Fred' although that wasn't his real name.)

Mycroft hurried to catch up _(coughed discreetly so that those in front of him came to a halt) _to Jim in the wheelchair and the employee wheeling him along the otherwise deserted and unlit hallway towards the only occupied apartment-cell.

The black-suited employee turned to him, "Sir?"

"I'll take it from here." Mycroft decided, once he reached him and Jim.

They stood in front of the door which held a mugshot of 'Fred', his real name posted below it.

"Yes, sir." The employee agreed, releasing the wheelchair and then opening the door for Mycroft.

Mycroft's eyes gestured inside the room and so the black-suited man hopped to grab the wheelchair again, pushing Jim through the open door into the room.

Mycroft's eyes then gestured down the hall and so the employee then nodded to his employer, hurrying away down it.

When he was gone, Mycroft walked into the apartment-cell of 'Fred' and closed the door behind him.

In the living room of the dark apartment, Mycroft managed to see the silhouette of a man seated in a wheelchair and another man step out from some darker shadow, before he reached over to the lightswitch and flipped on the light.

Fred cringed in the new light, which he was years unused to. Eyes squinting and body hunched, he stared up at Mycroft.

"Have you finally come to kill me?" he inquired, "Please, Mr. Holmes. Just kill me."

"Don't start that again, Mr. Wiggins—" Mycroft sighed, immediately being interrupted.

"_Don't call me that!"_ Fred shouted, exploding out from his crunched, whispering form to his full height and loudness like a detonated bomb, "That's not who I am!"

Mycroft remained unphased, only a blink of his eyes on his otherwise unexpressive face betraying that Fred had surprised (unnerved) him.

"My mistake." He apologized, "…and who are you?"

"I am nobody." Fred murmured, retreating into a slouch once again.

And so Mycroft sighed again, rolling his eyes slight.

"Well, 'nobody', I've brought a 'friend' here to visit you." he informed, gesturing to the person seated speechless and staring into space in the wheelchair.

"I don't see anyone there." Fred denied, shaking his head almost in disbelief, "No one's there. Nobody…"

Mycroft smiled.

He strolled over to the wheelchair and tapped Jim on the shoulder.

"I know how you like to shut down and block the whole world out when things don't go your way and you can't figure a way out, 'Mr. Moriarty', but you're a guest in this man's home so you should try to be more polite." He started, conversationally, "Say hello, Jim."

Jim didn't stir. For once, he didn't want to move and he didn't want to talk.

There was nothing he could say and nothing he could do to (or, at least, that he could think of saying or doing) that would manipulate the situation back into favoring him and so there was really no point of doing or saying anything at all. Really no point of _existing._

He remained motionless and silent in the wheelchair, staring just past but not at Fred.

Mycroft stood behind him, frustrated with Jim's behavior as usual. Normally, he wanted nothing more than to get Jim to_ just shut up, _and so _of course,_ the one time Jim was actually quiet, he needed him to confess to a crime he'd committed twenty years ago.

He started back over towards Fred.

"Why don't you remind Mr. Jim Moriarty here what he did to you and your friends in this very flat twenty some years ago?" he suggested, "How he murdered them, brutally, and framed _you _for it? Don't you remember?"

"No, no I don't remember." Fred claimed, still shaking his head as if he could shake the bloodstained image out of his head, "I don't remember! I don't remember!"

He dissolved into frantic protesting, making himself smaller and smaller as he did in hopes that he would just disappear.

Mycroft was about to slap his forehead in frustration…

…when Jim finally spoke.

"I remember." He whispered, smirk returning to both his smile and his eyes. He looked at Mycroft and then at Fred, "…I was young, inexperience—but not virgin—to the whole murder thing. Still, I was reckless and things didn't go as planned…"

"And how were they supposed to go?" Mycroft asked, turning to him and folding his arms.

"Sherlock was supposed to be there." Jim informed, "I was going to frame him, give him no choice but to run away with me. He should have been there that night. I overheard him tell loverboy 'Vicky' he would. Where was he?"

Now Mycroft smirked, laughing once.

"He was at home." He told him, "Your brother was helping with his make-up maths work."

"Damn James…" Jim grumbled.

Fred stared at him. In shock and horror as if was staring at a monster, and in awe and disbelief as if he was staring at a god.

"It's you…it's really you…" he gasped.

"So you can see him now?" Mycroft checked, glancing at Fred and then Jim in turn, "I believe it's time you two got reacquainted, chat about old times."

Fred continued to gape at Jim who grinned back at him, having found something worth existing for (at least for the moment).

Mycroft adjusted the cigarette pack in his pocket.

* * *

The tan man glared suspiciously while Ian Monkford looked on confused and fearful as Irene yet again lowered the phone from her ear without having spoken into it.

Irene smiled apologetically and embarrassedly.

The tan man raised his machete, pointing it at her.

"I'll just try someone else." She said, lifting back up the phone.

This time, she dialed the number of Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

Mycroft adjusted the cigarette pack in his pocket.

His cellphone was not in his pocket nor on his person. He'd grown up without one and so there was no ghost-limb feeling of being anxiously incomplete (like Anthea was currently experiencing) even though it sat on his desk in his office downstairs.

Also downstairs, next to Mycroft's office in the apartment-prison, was Anthea's office.

Inside it was not Anthea but Molly Hooper.

"These cells are actually sort of nice," she commented as she was led into the room by the black-suited woman, "much better than I expected."

She smiled at the woman.

The woman remained expressionless.

"This isn't actually a converted cell." She informed, closing the door behind them, "It's an office. All the other cells are full."

"But there isn't anything…office-y in here." Molly commented, glancing around.

Sure, there was a desk and a chair. But both were empty and there were no shelves, books, papers, pens, _anything._

"It was all on her phone." The black-suited woman explained.

"…oh." Molly accepted.

When Irene lowered the landline telephone this time, the tan man jumped up from his chair, waving his machete.

"No more games." He warned, "You have one more chance."

Irene stood firm, visibly unaffected by his threats. Monkford, however, jumped at the other man's movements and scattered away from him towards the corner.

The tan man glared at Irene and she smiled back at him.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the phone to dial a final number.

* * *

Two of Mycroft Holmes's black-suited men followed Gregory Lestrade as he exited the secret prison, the construction site it was hidden in, and walked through the rain soaked streets of London all the way back to his suburban townhouse.

Satisfied that Lestrade was only going home, they two turned back and went back 'home' to their base.

(After all, they had his phones and email tapped so they'd know who he was contacting and what he was telling them, anyway.)

But Lestrade opened the door to his house that afternoon to a shock.

"…it's so…clean…"

He gazed around at the visible floors (normally covered by his kids' toys or items his kids had knocked over) and the organized tabletops, shelftops and couch and chair cushiontops (all normally cluttered with newspapers, magazines, and used plates and mugs).

"…how…?"

"I had your children tidy up a bit while you were away."

Lestrade jolted upon hearing the voice, whipping around to see Samantha Moran standing behind the door.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?!" he exclaimed, "How did you get in here?!"

"Your wife needed a babysitter." Samantha explained, matter-of-factly, with a smile, "I intercepted the phone call."

"Well, you can go now, then." Lestrade suggested, steeling his facial expression and gesturing to the still open door.

"That's no way to speak to your employer." Samantha chided, standing firm and crossing her arms.

"Then I quit." Lestrade shrugged, "…now get out."

"We had a deal, Mr. Lestrade." Samantha reminded, stepping towards him and shutting the door, "I gave you all the information the Custodian Group has on Moriarty, _both_ of them, and now you need to tell me where Mycroft Holmes is keeping my brother."

"I don't know." Lestrade lied.

He didn't back away from her. A _woman_ wasn't going to intimidate him, not in his own home with his kids here…

…and where were his kids, anyway?

"Where are my children?!" Lestrade demanded, "Don't you even _think_ of threatening them to get to me—"

"They're fine." Samantha 'consoled', rolling her eyes, "They're taking their naps upstairs."

"You're lying." Lestrade suspected, "I can never get them to take naps. I can never get them to _clean,_ either, and look at this place."

He gestured around at the uncharacteristically clean living room.

"I'm very persuasive." Samantha assured, "…Now, tell me where my brother is. I know he went with you, John Watson, and that government employee to Argentina, but now you're back. So where is he?"

Lestrade sighed.

Although he didn't trust Mycroft, he didn't trust Samantha either or her brother. He knew that telling her where her brother was so she could go get him wouldn't create the safest of situations.

Still, he wanted this lady out of his home….and didn't want her to come back with her gray-uniformed employees.

"…last time I saw him he was with Mycroft." He admitted.

"_Where?"_ Samantha insisted, narrowing her eyes.

Lestrade sighed again.

"He's got this apartment building in a bad neighborhood, converted into some kind of prison…"

"_Where?" _

And again.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Good evening, this is Dominatrix Domain. Mistress Victoria speaking, how may I help you unleash your inner slave?"

"Kate?"

"Irene?...I thought you were busy in London. With _Sherlock Holmes_…"

"I was…but I'm in Colombia now. I didn't know you were dominating now?"

"Well, why not? Somebody had to take over your practice while you were away. What are you doing in Colombia?"

"I've been kidnapped, Kate. They want a ransom."

"Well, well, well. Look who's finally the 'damsel in distress'. Why don't you get your 'prince' Sherlock to save you?"

"Are you really still jealous about that?"

"No, I just think it's funny, that's all. You run off to help him, but he's never around to help you."

"He saved my life when the terrorists tried to execute me."

"…oh, right."

"That's why I agreed to help him. I'm returning the favor—except now I've been kidnapped so are you going to wire me the money so that I can go free or will I have to break my back working in a coca field for the rest of my life?"

There was a cough.

Irene turned to where the tan man had returned to his chair, which he had apparently just coughed in, interrupting her conversation.

He didn't say anything to her, instead he looked over to Monkford, who spoke up from his corner.

"It's not coca." He told Irene, "It's coffee."

The tan man laughed.

"Even more are addicted to it, and it is_ legal."_ He explained, chuckling.

Irene rolled her eyes and turned away from them, looking back at the wall to which the landline phone was attached.

"Hello? Irene?"

"Yes, hello. Sorry about that. So as I was saying, are you going to come rescue me, be my dominatrix in shining armor, or am I going to spend the rest of my life breaking my back working in a coffee field?"

"…I thought you said it was a coca field…"

"Just come save me, Kate. Okay?"

* * *

Mycroft knew that some of his employees would follow both Lestrade and John just to make sure they didn't reveal the location of this prison to anyone.

….on the condition that they actually left the secret apartment-prison.

Although Greg Lestrade had, John Watson had not.

Upon leaving the office, he decided he'd have a look around this strange building perpetually under construction with a secret prison hidden inside.

There was nothing much of interest on the first floor, just the offices. The large one of cubicles he'd come from, then the nice corner one with the locked doors that must have been Mycroft's and the smaller, windowed one next to that one that must have been Anthea's.

Inside Anthea's was Molly Hooper, sitting uncomfortably at an empty desk while a black-suited woman watched her.

John decided that this didn't interest him either and kept walking, forwards towards and up the stairs.

He passed through three floors of locked doors with pictures posted upon them of the prisoners imprisoned behind them.

He recognized some of these people, too.

There was that 'construction worker' (hitman) that had used to live on Baker Street before inexplicably disappearing (guess that's what happened to him).

And that man he'd seen around Scotland Yard. Must have been corrupt (hopefully).

And Sebastian Moran. _Finally._

….and then there was someone else.

John recognized him from his days training at St. Bartholomew's before enlisting in the army. He looked older, of course, and his hair was longer, but it was definitely him.

That troublemaking underclassman who slept with all those girls….what was his name again? _Richard? Roger?_

Robert.

Robert Hemsworth.

(It said so on the door, right under the picture.)

Why was _he_ here?

John approached the door to the apartment-cell, wondering just what the fellow doctor had done to warrant be arrested by the British government (Mycroft Holmes).

He tried the doorknob, surprised to find that it wasn't locked and even more surprised to find that inside there was no black-suited man standing guard (which seemed to have been standard for the other cells, John had seen the shift change on the floor below).

Instead, Robert Hemsworth himself stood in front of a metal table (much like the ones found in a morgue(…or in a horror movie)) with a naked body lying ontop of it.

Before John could ponder this situation fully, he stepped into the room and found that it felt like walking into a fridge (or a morgue).

He could see a second air-conditioning system installed next to the one built into the room, both of them humming full blast, and he could see his breath form a white cloud in front of him and then disappear.

"John Watson?" Robert addressed, taken aback and backing away from the table, "What are you doing here?"

"How do you know my name?" John asked.

"We went to Bart's together, remember?" Robert reminded.

"Yeah, I remember." John confirmed, nodding, then asking again, "Why are you here? Are you a prisoner?"

"…Not technically." Robert told him, "A pretty lady from the government hired me to surgically alter a corpse to resemble…someone else, so it would appear as if that someone else had died."

"…And who was that _'someone else'?"_ John ventured, raising an eyebrow, venturing towards the metal table.

Robert stepped away from the table, gesturing to the dead body atop it.

"Jim Moriarty." He said.

John stared down at the body (which indeed looked just like Jim Moriarty), but before he could say anything in response to Robert's words, another voice from the doorway had shouted.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" the black-suited employee exclaimed, "You can't be in here!"

He rushed into the room, expression unusually expressive, eyes wide in shock…and also _fear_ (of what his employer could have done to him if he found out that John Watson of all people had seen the fake body of Jim Moriarty).

Now, just one black-suited employee wouldn't have been enough to subdue John Watson…

…but _two more_ (with matching fear and shock on their faces) in addition to that first, got the job done (but not without getting punched a few times first).

Two each grabbed an arm, and the third pushed as they pulled John, struggling, out of the frigid room.

John gave Robert an urgent glance, requesting back-up, but the plastic surgeon just shrugged.

"Sorry, mate…"

And so, with that, John Watson was dragged out of the room and downstairs to where he would be imprisoned himself.

* * *

It was nightfall when the tan man returned to the coffee farm on the mountain and entered the cinderblock building where Ian Monkford and Irene Adler sat awaiting their fates at the table of outdated technology.

Instead of brandishing his machete, he brandished the cash in the millions (of Colombian money, the exchange rate was high) that he had successfully received via wire transfer from Kate in the United States.

"You are free to go." He declared.

Monkford and Irene stood, sighing in relief.

"Do we get a ride back to town?" Monkford asked, hopefully.

The tan man just laughed.

Monkford and Irene walked down the mountain on the dirt road in the dark, finally reaching Medellin in the early morning.

Irene had her own wired money waiting for her, which she would use to buy a plane ticket out of this country (and some new clothes and shoes to replace the ones that had gotten ruined).

Ian Monkford had nothing.

And Irene _was_ going to leave him behind, leave him behind to get brutally murdered as a foreigner alone in a big city in the middle of the night (which would have solved the 'shut Monkford up' problem (permanently)), _she really was…_

…but she didn't.

Instead, she found a new job for him—as a male submissive at the Dominatrix Domain in Orange County, California.

_Any ladies (or gentlemen) want to blow off some steam by whipping a bound and gagged man? _

_Well, look no longer, the 'Monk' is here. _

(And the gag would make sure he didn't reveal that Jim Moriarty (and so Sherlock Holmes) was real.)

* * *

**Haha, well I hoped you liked it even though it was short.**

**The next one will be longer. **

**Please review! **


	27. Rebirth, Redeath, Repeat

**Hi, everyone! I hope you're all having a good February! **

**Thanks so much to everyone who's still reading and reviewing, I really appreciate it! **

**I hope you like this chapter! **

* * *

John was shoved by the three black-suited men into the undecorated office (currently doubling as a prison cell) where Molly sat at the unused desk guarded by a standing black-suited woman.

Molly looked up when the light and sound burst into the room through the thrust open door, shocked to see that John was the one being forced into the room by three employees.

(She _would_ have asked why, but things had been so crazy lately she doubted that there even _was_ a 'why'.)

"I thought Mycroft said you all couldn't put a man and a woman in the same cell together." John snapped, shrugging the hands off his shoulders.

"There were no empty cells left and putting you two together, instead of with dangerous criminals, was the only option." The first of the men attempted to explain, standing in the doorway.

"That's not the only option." John countered, matter-of-factly, "You could just let me go."

"We can't do that, Mr. Watson," The man apologized, "you've…seen too much."

John raised an eyebrow, almost laughing in frustration but instead shaking his head.

"Look, I already know Moriarty's still alive." He stated, "I chased him to Argentina, I was with him when we were all arrested—what else could you people _possibly_ have to hide from me?"

The black suited man paused before answering to glance over at the other two black-suited men and then at the black-suited woman. When all four of them were unable to come up with a legitimate excuse, the first man turned back to John.

"Wait here while I go get my employer." He told him, "He'll decide what happens next. Don't try to leave."

John sighed, closing his eyes in defeat.

Two of the black suited men exited the room, leaving John and Molly with the two remaining nameless employees.

When they were gone, the black-suited woman turned to the black-suited man.

"Why didn't you just ask Anthea what to do with Watson?" she inquired.

"Because Mr. Holmes had her put in a cell as well." The black-suited man explained.

"Oh." was the black-suited woman's response to the man's words.

"What?!" was both John and Molly's response.

"I've said too much already." The man replied and was silent from then on, staring awkwardly out the window of the door and leaving the other employee's eyes the only ones directly on the prisoners (although he could see all three of the other people's silhouettes in the reflection on the window).

Now John did laugh.

Molly and the two guards eyed him questioningly, uncomfortable with the laughter.

"I see what's happened now." John declared, "Mycroft's gone insane. That's only explanation for all of this that I can find."

"The explanation is that Sherlock is alive." Molly stated, "And once he gets here—"

"_Quiet."_ The black-suited woman interrupted, pointing a finger in warning at Molly.

Molly stopped talking but attempted to make meaningful get-the-message-across eye-contact with John (wasn't here being silenced proof?).

John just shook his head done at the floor.

"I'm done with this; the lies, the criminals, and all of _you…"_ he muttered, residual laughter masking the disgust in his voice, "…and even if Sherlock—by some miracle—is alive, then I'm done with him too."

And so Molly shook_ her_ head, sadly and not laughing.

"He did it to protect you." she told him, very quietly, "To save your life—"

"_Quiet."_ The black-suited woman said again.

* * *

"You're not _human_…how could you do this to my friends… To me…?"

"Actually, Freddy,_ you_ did it. To your friends. To yourself."

"You made me! You drugged me and told me what to do!"

"And you listened. You did as you were told. You couldn't fight it. So weak, so obedient…_like a puppet."_

Mycroft stood still and silent, listening to the conversation (which he was recording) between Jim Moriarty and the man whose name was really Rudras Wiggins, in the dark apartment-cell where the crime being discussed had occurred twenty-some years ago.

* * *

Outside the door, Sherlock stood still and silent listening to the same conversation.

The recording device he'd let Mycroft confiscate from him transmitted as an audio file to Sherlock's email address and Sherlock had listened to them on the plane during his trip back to London from Slovakia.

(Sitting next to him on the airplane, using a false passport, was Oscar Dzundza (The Golem) also returning to London to do the job Sherlock had hired him to.)

At first, it was Mycroft bargaining with the Argentine authorities as well as other higher-ups in the British government, and then, a day later, it was Mycroft having Jim, Molly, Moran, and Anthea all arrested (in that order).

Sherlock also heard _John's _voice.

_John _was somewhere in this perpetually under-construction apartment building. _Where,_ Sherlock didn't know…but he would find out, just as soon as he dealt with Mycroft (again).

* * *

"MYCROFT!"

Mycroft, Jim, and Fred all jolted upon hearing the shout. Instantly, they turned towards the door that was currently being forcefully knocked (pounded) upon.

Jim smiled.

"_Sherlock…"_ he whispered, the happy and sinister automatic reaction he always got just by being near the man he'd been obsessed with the majority of his life.

Mycroft smiled, too, but his smile was false. He was annoyed and angry.

"Excuse me, gentleman." He apologized in equally fake and automatic politeness, "I have to go attend to a matter. I'll only be a moment."

"Take your time." Jim allowed, with a wave of his hand, from where he sat lazily in his wheelchair with his head resting in his other hand.

Mycroft glanced at him, then turned and quickly headed towards the door of the dark room.

He paused to leave the cigarette pack (with the recording device inside) behind on a small and empty wooden table, so it would pick up any further evidence blaming Jim and absolving Mycroft for the crime.

He then exited the cell, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mycroft addressed, chastisingly.

"Oh, you heard me." Sherlock registered, flatly, stepping back to let Mycroft into the long hallway.

"Yes, and I'm sure the whole prison did as well." Mycroft returned, "Do you want everyone here to know you're still alive?"

"I want_ one_ person to." Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly, "…Where is he, Mycroft? Where is John? I know he's here so tell me where he is."

"How should I know?" Mycroft replied, honestly, "I was under the impression that he'd stormed out. If he's still here then this is the first I'm hearing of it. And speaking of hearing, you must have heard what the little recording device inside the cigarette pack you had me 'confiscate' picked up."

"What? The big confession where Moriarty admits to killing my drug dealer and some kids I'd never even met twenty years ago?" Sherlock interpreted, "I don't care about that."

"Of course you do, Sherlock." Mycroft countered, "That's the reason you ignored and avoided me for over a decade. Because you thought_ I_ was responsible for the murder of your very first friend."

"Yes, and I stopped 'ignoring and avoiding' you and started_ helping_ you once I realized that you _weren't."_ Sherlock added.

"And when did you 'realize' that?" Mycroft questioned, taken aback and raising an eyebrow.

"When Jim Moriarty played gay, wore green underwear and scratched his inner arm along the veins the way an addict would." Sherlock recounted.

"When was this?"

"…two years and five months ago, give or take."

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

"So you knew this entire time and never said anything, never admitted that you were wrong." He described, "Why am I not surprised?"

Sherlock almost shrugged, it was more like a twitch in one of his shoulders.

"Doesn't matter, anyway." He said, "What matters is John. Where is he?"

"I told you, Sherlock, I don't know." Mycroft restated, "And he's angry with me at the moment, too, so I'm not the person who he'd want to be around either."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this groaning and turning away from him to start back down the dim hall.

Just as he did, two black-suited employees appeared, hurrying in the direction of Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Mr. Holmes!" they began, in accidental unison.

They attempted to remain straight-faced but both Holmes brothers could see that they were nervous—especially at the sight of Sherlock.

He stopped and examined them, as did Mycroft from further down the hall, crossing his arms.

"What is it now?" Mycroft asked, annoyedly.

The two men halted, glancing at each other and then back at their boss.

"…May we speak to you in private, sir?" the first requested.

"No." Mycroft denied, "Now tell me and my brother what you say."

If the two employees had been alone to draw straws or play rock-paper-scissors, they most certainly would have.

From working for Mycroft (and seeing the news), they knew that Sherlock Holmes would not be happy to hear that they had put John Watson in a makeshift cell and neither of them wanted to be the one to be the 'bearer of bad news' (or held responsible for it).

There was a moment of silence in which the two men in black mourned their no-doubt painful future fates (and Mycroft tapped a finger impatiently) and then the second employee spoke.

"…John Watson saw the fake corpse of Jim Moriarty and so we had to lock him in Anthea's office downstairs…"

" '_had_ to'?" Mycroft repeated, analytically, stepping forwards towards his employees and to stand next to Sherlock.

"We didn't know what else to do, sir." The first man spoke up, "…He saw that Jim Moriarty is alive and so knew the dead body wasn't really him, it had just been surgically altered to look like him. We were afraid that he then would figure out that your brother is also still alive, too."

Mycroft took a breath and then said, "Well, my brother doesn't seem to have a problem with that anymore now…"

He trailed off when he realized his brother was no longer standing next to him.

Sherlock has maneuvered past the two black-suited men and was now practically running down the hallway, coat flowing like a cape behind him, towards the stairs.

Mycroft and his employees watched him go until he was gone, Mycroft then looking back at the two.

"You both were just very lucky." He commented, "And if I were you, I wouldn't let Sherlock Holmes see you ever again."

The employees nodded "Yes, sir," at their employer who then walked past them, after Sherlock.

When he too was gone they breathed sighs of relief.

* * *

"You really shouldn't feel guilty, you know…about the murders. It wasn't your fault. It was mine. _All mine."_

"…why are you saying this?"

"Because, dear Fred, I believe we are being recorded. It's what 'Mr. Holmes' _wants_ me to say."

"And you do what he wants?"

"Why not?"

"He's left us in here with no guards…aren't you going to escape?

"Look at me. I'm a cripple. I'm not going anywhere."

"Mycroft Holmes is stupid. He knows what you did to me and my friends. He shouldn't have left me alone with you when you can't even run away."

"…do you want to kill me, 'Mr. Mercury'—Or, should I say 'Mr. Wiggins'?"

"Yes."

"Then do it. Go on and do it. I'll let you. I won't put up a fight."

"No…I want to but I can't. I can't kill again."

"Why not?"

"…because it feels horrible! It makes me want to die!"

"No it doesn't. Not to me."

"That's because you're nobody and so you don't feel anything. You can't feel _anything. _Me, I feel everything you don't and it's terrible._"_

"…Tell me, why is it then, that after all those torturous years in prison, you didn't just put yourself out of your misery? It couldn't have been _so_ bad if you've managed to survive this long."

"Because I will never kill again."

"Suicide doesn't count. Besides,_ Mycroft_ promised he'd kill you, didn't he?…but Mycroft lies…"

"That's why _you've_ got to do it, you've got to kill me!"

"I don't actually do that anymore. Sorry."

"Please! you have to do it!"

"I don't take orders. Especially not from nobody's like you."

"You are for hire, though, aren't you 'Mr. Moriarty? Mycroft told me all about what you do. You're a 'consulting criminal'. You set up crimes, commit them… So please, just, fix this for me."

"Why should I?"

"Because you don't want to…and doing something you don't want to do will make you feel something."

"Don't get me wrong, Freddy. I want to kill you, I do. I like killing. But I can't. I just can't."

"Why?"

"I didn't stop because I _wanted_ to, I stopped because I _had_ to. I made a deal with this girl, you see, a _promise…"_

"Break the promise."

"Now that'll break the poor girl's heart."

"Would you feel bad?"

"_Maybe a little…" _

"Then do it. Kill me and finally feel something."

"…oh alright, because you asked me so nicely, I'll kill you. But I don't have a gun so you're going to have to come over here so I can strangle you—unless you want to lay down and let me run over your head with my wheel chair instead."

"Choke me. I won't struggle and you can look in my eyes and know when it's done."

"How romantic. Come here."

"Okay."

"You're gonna have to kneel down for me, now. Get right between my legs so I can hold you still. There we go…that a boy…"

"I'm ready. Just get this over with."

"You say you won't struggle, but you will. It's a biological response, once the air gets low enough your body starts to fight, it's a painful way to die

"My friends died more painfully."

"Alas, there won't be any blood to make such pretty pictures with, though. My hands won't get dirty and I don't know if they're strong enough after I got shot, but I think since I'll use both, I'll be able to break your neck."

"I've seen this happen in prison before. I don't need all the details."

"Oh, but the devil is in the details and god is in the small things."

"I want to be _nothing._ Nothing."

"…scared yet, Freddy?

"No."

"…You really aren't, are you?"

"No."

"…You know, I wasn't scared either, right before I shot myself. I did it quick without any build up, just put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger, so I wouldn't have a _chance_ to get scared. I didn't think I was gonna wake up. But I did. And when I did I _was_. I was scared."

"You didn't really want to die, then. I do."

"You might change your mind about that, at the last minute."

"I won't."

"It'll be more fun if you do…ah, such a skinny little neck. Mycroft hasn't been feeding you much, has he?"

"Just do it already!"

"Alright, alright. I get it. The suspense is _killing _you. "

"…"

"No? Oh, you've got no sense of humor at all."

"_Please." _

"Hush now, just close your eyes—I promise you, you'll open them again. Once you get scared once you start fighting, and then it'll be like your being reborn, you're fighting to stay in this world the way you fought to come into it, and then you lose and then you die."

"Okay…and, one last thing, Jim."

"Yes, Rudy?"

"Thank you."

* * *

The silence was tense in Anthea's office, the prison cell where Molly sat and John stood.

And he had been standing long enough.

It had taken three male employees to force him in here. Now, inside there were only one male and one female black-suited employee.

Perhaps, they were counting on the fact that John Watson would 'never hit a girl'…but John refused to be illegally detained by Mycroft Holmes (who'd obviously "gone insane", as it was the "only explanation") and he was going to get out.

So, John stopped standing and started walking towards the windowed door.

The man facing it spun around to face him.

John punched him in the face.

The black-suited woman drew her gun and pointed it at John, as the black-suited man clutched his face and sunk to the floor.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?" John asked, opening his arms for effect, "You know who I am and you know your boss doesn't want me dead."

The woman lowered her weapon.

John almost smiled. It was more of a half-hearted smirk.

The female employee and Molly, seated at the empty desk, watched as John walked calmly out of the room.

The male employee slowly rose to his feet, still massaging his nose.

"Get after him!" the woman in black commanded, gesturing at the open door John had just exited through.

The man nodded at her and then hobbled out of the room, one hand brandishing a gun and the other covering his bleeding face.

When the black-suited woman turned back to Molly she discovered Molly was gone, no longer in the swivel chair she'd just been sitting in.

She bent over to check for Molly under the unused desk, finding nothing. Before she could raise her head, however, she felt the chair roll into her from behind, trapping her (for about thirty seconds) under the desk.

From under the desk, the female employee heard cautious footsteps scurry out from between the brown desk and the tan wall, until they too had left the room.

* * *

John was almost to main entrance (and so exit) of the apartment building prison (so far not encountering anymore black-suited employees) when he heard footsteps behind him.

Before he could even turn around to see who was sneaking up on him from behind, he heard the voice.

_Sherlock's _voice.

_Sherlock _was here. Sherlock was _alive._

John stopped, took a deep breath and turned around.

_Sherlock. _

Coat, scarf, cheekbones and everything…_alive._

"John." Sherlock repeated.

John said nothing, he just stared.

The thoughts raced in circles through his mind, going nowhere.

(Molly had been telling the truth. Moriarty had been telling the truth. Sherlock had lied to him…)

If John Watson had been Sherlock Holmes, then he would've been able to understand it. Add everything up. Figure it all out. _Just know_ how and why Sherlock had faked his own death and pretended to be dead, lying to the world—lying to him—for a whole month, while his friends grieved.

_Logically,_ John knew Sherlock must have had a good reason…

…but _emotionally,_ it felt as whatever that reason was, it was wasn't good enough and Sherlock being able to do this to him meant that he didn't care about him.

Sherlock stared at John, too.

He tried to think of what to say that would make John understand and, more importantly, forgive him but for all his genius he couldn't think of anything.

In fact, he couldn't figure out _anything _to say except "John".

So, instead of repeating himself a third time and sounding stupid, Sherlock remained silent and continued to stare.

And so did John.

He was afraid to blink, even. Afraid that if he did, Sherlock would be gone when he opened his eyes.

John wanted to say something (shout angrily or exclaim happily), but he couldn't think of anything to say, either. He couldn't even think of _what_ to feel.

(Shock, disbelief,_ horror _even…he felt all those, of course, but then they had faded after the first few seconds.)

His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was alive. He had come back from the dead. And John wasn't alone, anymore…

He knew he should be mad (Sherlock had lied to him!) but he wasn't. He knew he should be ecstatic (Sherlock was alive!) but he wasn't, either.

And just as John Watson had felt when he'd returned to England from Afghanistan, after three years of war, John felt empty. _Nothing…_

John and Sherlock would have continued to stare silently at eachother probably the entire evening and long into the night, but Mycroft arrived to break the silence, stares and tension.

John looked over at him, glare steady and controlled.

"This is what you've been trying to hide?" he asked, gesturing to (but no longer looking at) Sherlock.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft apologized, honestly, "I had no choice."

"I'm sorry, too, John." Sherlock added, "But I can explain—"

"It's fine, Sherlock." John interrupted.

"What?" Sherlock inquired, surprised.

"I forgive you." John said.

"…_you do?"_ Sherlock tested, in hopeful skepticism.

"Yes." John affirmed, "I do."

And with that, before Sherlock could say anything else, John turned and strode away down the hallway towards the building's exit.

Sherlock expected him to limp.

He didn't.

* * *

Molly had snuck past the anticlimactic reunion between Sherlock and John, dashing through the halls and up the stairs of the prison (hoping not to be spotted by any black-suited employees).

She saw that the prisoner's pictures were on the doors and so kept searching until she found a picture of Jim Moriarty.

There was one, on a door, but that door was open and the room was empty.

_(Had Jim escaped already? He was in a wheelchair, how could he?) _

Molly passed that room, got to the end of the hallway, and climbed another set of stairs up to the next floor.

It was dark and empty, all the doors were closed but none had pictures on them. Molly crept through the hall, slowly, carefully, trying to discern if any of these rooms were actually in use.

The only sounds were her footsteps, the creaking floorboards, and her breathing.

And then another sound.

The roll of two wheels against the wood.

Jim.

And then a thud.

Molly rushed towards the source of the noises, opening the door she thought was the room, finding the room empty and then trying the next door over.

Inside the unlit room was the silhouette of Jim in seated the wheelchair…and the silhouette of a body.

It was slumped over on the floor in front of Jim like discarded trash. It and Jim appeared before Molly like an offering of a slaughtered animal.

"Hello, Molly." Jim greeted, recognizing her silhouette in the doorway.

Molly stepped into the room, switching on the light as she did. She cringed at the change in brightness—_and _at what she saw.

Working in a morgue for years, Molly knew what a dead body looked like. This one was only very recently deceased but the bruises from strangulation were already forming post-mortem around his neck.

His eyes were closed.

Jim's eyes were open. They stared at Molly with the intensity they only ever got when he was being very cruel or thinking of Sherlock.

"Jim…" Molly began, "…what have you done?"

"What does it look like?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and gesturing to the corpse.

"Oh, god…" Molly choked, holding the emotion of her voice inside her like water in a dam. When it had fully been drained from her words, she continued, "You _promised._ Jim, you promised."

"I know, darling, and I'm sorry." Jim apologized, conversationally, "But you just don't understand. He_ wanted_ me to kill him. _Begged _me to."

Molly shook her head.

"That doesn't mean you had to do it." she stated.

"He was suffering, for god's sake!" Jim exclaimed, "I had to end his pain. It was the least I could do."

"That's not why you did it." Molly countered, "You don't _care_ about people's suffering, you don't _care_ how people feel."

"That's all I care about!" Jim declared, " I love it when people feel, when I _make_ them feel—pain, pleasure, _anything!_ When they feel, I come_ so close _to actually feeling something myself!...and so I just wanted to feel something—"

"By killing?!" Molly cried, "That man is dead now! He doesn't feel anything at all! So how can you possibly—"

"It makes me feel _alive."_ Jim troped, "…For a long time I never even realized I _wanted _that. To feel alive. To _be_ alive."

"You don't need to kill to do that!" Molly attempted, desperately and in vain, "You're alive, Jim! And _just living_ is 'feeling alive'. Whatever you feel, you're 'feeling alive'—"

She was so frustrated, so angry, so betrayed….she wanted to cry and felt the tears pooling behind her eyelids but fought to keep them inside.

If she were Jim, she'd have no trouble doing so. She'd have no trouble faking tears, either.

"But that's just it, I _don't_ feel." Jim replied, "And I try so hard to feel, too, those petty and profound emotions I see people like you feel so effortlessly, automatically. But I don't. I can't. Except when I kill…then, I feel something. Something strong."

"No you don't…" Molly disagreed, "You think you will and so you do it, but when you do, it's never as good as what you imagine, is it? It's no better than anything else. And you still feel nothing."

"…and just how would you know anything about that, Molly Hooper?" Jim questioned.

"Because I know you, Jim, and with you it's never the action…" Molly explained, "It's always the idea, the plan, the build up to that action—but never the action itself."

"The Game." Jim identified.

"Well, that's what you call it." Molly qualified, "But it isn't one. It's r_eal_…and if you really did care about how people feel, if you really were able to feel, you wouldn't play with people lives—you wouldn't _kill people_—because you'd actually be able to understand the emotions they experience when you hurt them. Not just _see_ the emotion, on their faces, r_ecognize_ that they are feeling it…but really, truly _feel_ it. Feel the emotions for yourself. Empathize with the people feeling them. But you can't do that and you never will. No matter what, you'll never have the one thing you want."

Jim didn't say anything, at first, in response to Molly's monologue. He just looked at her like he was deciding whether to laugh at her or attempt to murder her as well. (Well, at least he didn't look bored).

Molly wondered what it was like to be Jim (or Sherlock), to not be constantly subject to so many extreme and confliction emotions that she had to always keep so carefully under control.

One emotion she didn't feel, however, was surprise. She'd known that Jim would kill again; that his promise to her meant nothing, and that it was only a matter of time before he got bored of playing 'reformed criminal' for her and Sherlock, and reverted to who he really was.

And Molly knew who and _what_ Jim really was.

She knew it, and she loved him anyway because she couldn't control her emotions and choose what and who to feel them for.

But what Molly could control were her own actions.

Finally, Jim spoke.

"They didn't convert this floor into prison cells yet, they've still got the windows, not bricked or boarded up," he said, "…if I roll back far enough so I can go fast enough, I can jettison myself off the balcony and fall to my death…just like _Sherlock._ Just like that…and all you'd have to do, Molly, is open that window. You could even push me out of it, too, if you wanted."

"I'm not going to." Molly stated.

"Why not?" Jim asked, "You know I deserve it. And I bet, right now, you really want to."

"And do you want me to?" Molly asked.

"Yes." Jim answered.

"Then I'm not going to do it." Molly declared, firmly.

"Oh, come on. The window's right there." Jim insisted, "It won't be a murder because I want to die. You won't have to feel bad."

"No." Molly repeated, folding her arms.

"It's nothing you haven't done before, helping someone die…" Jim reminded, slyly, "You did it for your father. Why won't you do it for me? Don't you _love _me, Molly…?"

"I'm not going to help you anymore." Molly declared, "And I'm through trying to stop you from committing crimes, through trying to protect you, through_ caring_ about you."

"_Liar."_ Jim dismissed, "You'll never leave me. I'm the only one you have. The only one who'll ever want you."

"…I used to think so." Molly admitted, "But now I don't care about that, either. I'd rather be alone than continue to live like this any longer."

Jim shook his head.

"No, no, no." he refused, "You can't give up like this. That's not how this works."

"Too late." Molly said, "I've already given up on you—"

"No, not on me! On yourself!" Jim interrupted, now chuckling (albeit a bit bitterly) and still shaking his head, "You can't give up on yourself being a good person—as good as I'm, well, _'evil'_—and so while I'm busy being 'evil', you've got to try to stop me to prove just how 'good' you are. You won't succeed, of course, but I won't stop you from trying and so we can do this forever."

"I can't be with you and be a good person at the same time." Molly refuted.

"Yes you can." Jim assured, "As long as you try to make me a 'better man'."

"I tried and I failed." Molly recounted, "You'll never change."

"That's not what matters!" Jim exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation, "What matters is that you _try._ And _keep _trying. And never give up."

"Why? So I can be your replacement for Sherlock?" Molly interpreted, "Well, I'm not like him and I can't play this stupid, selfish game with you anymore!"

"Then how will you stop me from killing, my dear Molly, if you don't distract me from all the other breakable little people I could play with?" Jim inquired.

"Look at you, Jim." Molly responded—almost scoffed, glaring down at him, "Can you even stand? You're powerless now. You can't hurt anyone."

"Rudras Wiggins begs to differ." Jim countered, pointing down at the dead body on the floor.

"And he's probably the last person you'll ever kill." Molly guessed, "…except, maybe, yourself."

"Suicide doesn't count." Jim said, "But does that mean you won't stop me from committing it, this time? You won't save me from myself?"

"…I won't." Molly confirmed, after a deep breath of resolve.

She deliberately maintained direct eye-contact with Jim, looking directly in his dark pupils, shrinking in the light as if they were cowering away from her.

But Jim smiled.

She stood above him and he was confined to the wheelchair. However, it was always Jim's mind that was scary, not his body.

Even when she had had him paralyzed on the morgue table, Molly still was afraid of Jim.

"You've become so cruel, Molly…" he smirked, almost lovingly, "You want me to die, but you won't kill me yourself. You won't kill me yourself, but you won't stop _me_ from killing _myself._ So cruel. So complicated and beautiful…"

He didn't mean it, of course, what he'd just said. Molly could tell.

And still, Molly wanted to sob. She wanted to step over the dead body ('Rudras Wiggins' as Jim had called him) and crumple down into Jim's lap and sob as he stroked her hair and laughed at her.

But she didn't.

(How could she after all he had done and all she had said? How could she let him win _again?) _

Instead, she sighed, closed her eyes and turned away from Jim. She opened her eyes when she was facing the tan wall. She walked towards it, turned back around and sat down against. She closed her eyes again so she wouldn't have to look at Jim (or the corpse on the floor) but she could feel him staring at her.

He didn't say anything, though.

* * *

**'Rudras' is a previous incarnation of a Hindu god. Fred's mother was Indian, his father was British. **

**I hope you liked this chapter!**

**Please review! **


	28. Revolve

**Spring break! Time to go crazy!**

**(Lay in bed all day on my laptop, writing fanfiction and watch TV.)**

**RANDOM SPECULATION:**

**I was rewatching The Reichenbach Fall and realized a police officer we keep seeing looks a lot like Kitty Riley. So what if she's an undercover cop? **

**This has nothing to do with this story or this chapter, but I was just thinking maybe... That would definitely be a surprise. **

**Well, anyway...**

**Hope you like this chapter! Not filler at all (and that's actually not sarcasm right there for once). **

* * *

They were silent for a long, long time.

Molly just sitting with her back against the wall, eyes closed, and Jim sitting across from her in the wheelchair, eyes open and staring at her.

Molly was sure that any minute now some Mycroft or some black-suited employee or even Sherlock would enter the apartment through its open, unlocked door.

But no one came.

Molly, Jim and the dead man were alone.

Molly also knew that if she left this room, she would be caught by one of Mycroft's people and put right back into another cell. _Alone._

(Molly _hated _being alone. Alone it was so easy, too easy to reflect on all the mistakes she had made, everything she was ashamed of, and hate herself for what she had done. Being alone made her vulnerable. Being with Jim meant she could focus on him and his faults, instead of her own. Love him instead of hate herself. Sure, Jim could—and _would_—hurt her (he was good at that) but when alone she hurt herself and that was always worse.

And so Molly stayed. She didn't want to be with Jim, him being the way he was, but she didn't want to leave him either. Especially if that meant that she would be alone.)

The lights in the room were on and bright, illuminating the tan wallpaper and brown hardwood floors. The sparse furnishings in the room were also one or the other color.

In a bold (but slightly passive-aggressive) move, Molly suddenly stood up from where she sat against the wall, across from Jim, and walked towards him.

He glanced up at her with a raised eyebrow from his seat in the wheelchair, but instead of addressing him, Molly bent down to drag the corpse away from where it lay at his feet.

Jim watched Molly as she managed to pull the dead body of Rudras Wiggins over to and then ontop of the uncomfortable-looking couch on the other side of the room and pose it there respectfully as if the dead man was merely sleeping.

It would be a couple hours before it began to smell and the weak illusion would completely be spoiled by the truth.

"He really _did_ want to die, you know…" Jim insisted, offhandedly, when Molly still had her back turned to him.

As anticipated, she tensed when he spoke and then slowly turned to face him with a face that she must have been attempting to make unreadable.

The widening of her nostrils was her breathing deeply through her nose because she didn't want to open her mouth as if she was surprised or startled, which meant that she was surprised or startled (probably both). The trembling on her lips was more of that, and also her keeping herself from speaking to him.

Her narrowing eyes, however, were her unshed tears. That was the betrayal, hopelessness and weakening resolve she felt.

Jim knew that soon he would have his Molly back, as always. And each time she tried to run from him, the easier it was to catch her again.

This game was too easy. He should have gotten bored of it a long time before.

But he hadn't.

(After all, playing a game you know for sure you'll win is too fun and too hard to quit.)

Again and as always, Jim thought of Sherlock.

Sherlock was here. He was in the building, he had heard his voice. And Jim was sure that any minute now Sherlock would run into John.

The two of them would fight, most likely, but as certain as Jim was that Molly would get over this months' self-righteous and half-hearted endeavor to break up with him, he was certain that John would forgive Sherlock and return to being his best friend.

Jim hated this, of course. _Really hated _it_._ Non-hyperbolically.

Those brief two working together were the closest Jim had ever gotten to having Sherlock as his 'friend'. But if John was back 'in the picture', then Jim was out.

Sherlock had only ever tolerated Jim—_temporarily_—because he had wanted his help to erase both of them from existence.

Sherlock had asked for_ Jim's_ help instead of his usual confidant's, keeping John completely unaware of everything (or at least_ tried_ to) because he wanted to protect John (and protect John's _perception _of him as an anti-social but generally good genius who would never work with criminals, commit serious crimes, or arrange for serious crimes to be committed).

He didn't care if_ Jim_ got hurt (or what _Jim _thought of him).

Jeopardizing their job by arranging meetings with the government-monitored Molly, flirting with the brick wall that was Irene Adler (when it came to Jim Moriarty), and even messing up the entire mission to retrieve the 'real' 'Lost Vermeer in Argentina, all hadn't changed that. Those incidents hadn't made Sherlock _jealous_ or _worried _or _angry._ The most they had made him was _mildly_ _annoyed,_ at first, and now it just seemed like he didn't even _notice._

Again.

Jim was right back to being ignored by Sherlock and yes, indeed, he _hated _it. Non-hyperbolically.

And so with Sherlock already unavailable (and Jim not mobile enough to demand his attention), once again and as always, Jim had to make Molly distract him.

He couldn't lose her now. Not when he'd come so close to having Sherlock (again) and then lost him (again). And so, he would slowly, but surely, get her back (again).

"…want to know why?" he asked, following-up to his earlier statement.

Molly didn't want to say yes. And she didn't say yes. Her lips pursed to stay shut.

…but her eyes, they widened and said "yes". Because Molly always wanted to know _why._

* * *

John found the rows of glass front doors strangely unlocked and rode the elevator inside all the way up to the top floor of the office building, where the offices of high-ranking employees had transparent walls and the cubicles of the low-ranking were made of metal.

He'd been here once before, with Lestrade. And tonight Lestrade had asked to meet him here this time. Apparently, he had some information for John as well. John hadn't yet told him that Sherlock was alive, not wanting to do so over the phone (which anyone could be tapping for all he knew, considering the events of the past month—he though Lestrade deserved to know the truth, but didn't think anybody else (except Mrs. Hudson) that Sherlock might have been hiding from by pretending to be dead did).

Both John and Lestrade had their phones returned to them upon returning to London, as they were not prisoners _(—yet, _in John's case). As John exited the construction site, being watched by Mycroft's employees dressed as construction workers, he had felt phone to vibrate in his pants pocket. Expecting Sherlock (or Mycroft (and to ignore either call)), John had pulled out his phone to see that_ Lestrade_ was calling him.

_Why?_ John had wondered and then he had wondered whether he should tell Lestrade that Sherlock was alive…He had decided he should. Just because Sherlock (and Mycroft and Anthea) had lied about it did not mean _he_ had to.

Lestrade greeted John as soon as he stepped off the elevator, the measured look of concern on his face that he used to have whenever he 'consulted' Sherlock (allowed Sherlock to do most of the work on) a particularly gruesome or dangerous case.

"John." Lestrade addressed, "Were you followed?"

"No." John said. And it was true. He had actually been surprised when the government employees watching him (or Sherlock) didn't sneak after him. Glancing around at all the metal and glass, he asked "Why are we here?"

The floor was empty as far as John could see. _No._ Two small figures were running and laughing. Lestrade's children seemed to be playing hide and seek tag among the offices and cubicles.

John raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing, still awaiting Lestrade's answer as the two of them approached the opaque office at the end of the long hallway.

"We're here because it's the only safe place for me and my kids." Lestrade explained (sort of).

"Why?" John ventured.

"Because," Lestrade continued, taking a deep and embarrassed breath, "I told Samantha Moran where Mycroft's secret prison is. And when she and fifty of her employees get there, he's going to know I was the one who told her."

"Wait—_what?"_ John questioned, stopping to look at Lestrade in shock and suspicion.

"She wants to get her brother out of Mycroft's custody." Lestrade informed, also stopping and turning around to face him, "She came to my house and I couldn't risk not telling her what she wanted to know cause my kids were right upstairs."

George and Katherine (wearing their pajamas) pressed their face up to the glass wall of the darkened office they had snuck into to watch their father and John walk and talk.

"I told you you couldn't trust her." John reminded, "Does your boss know about this?"

"I quit. Porlock isn't _my _boss anymore." Lestrade replied, matter-of-factly, "But he does know. Samantha tried to seize control of the company from him and when he refused, she held him at gunpoint in his office. I'm supposed to be guarding him right now but I let him go."

He gestured to the large corner office behind him.

John shook his head.

"This is insane, Greg." He declared, "You shouldn't have gotten involved. _We _shouldn't have gotten involved. When Sherlock died, we should have just kept our heads down and minded our business. Want to know why?"

"Why?" Lestrade indulged, turning his head to one side.

"Because Sherlock didn't really die." John stated, "He's still alive."

"_What!?"_ it was Lestrade's turn to exclaim, _"How?!_ You said you _saw_ him die. You saw the body, checked his pulse and he was dead. How is it even _possible_ he could be alive?"

"I don't know and I don't care." John responded, folding his arms, "I didn't even ask him how he had done it when he walked up to me like nothing was even wrong. I just left. "

"You've got to go back and talk to him!" Lestrade urged.

"No." John refused, "I can't. I can't even _look _at him. He can't just fake his own death and then expect everything to be fine again. Because it's _not._ And I can't ever trust him again after he made me _watch him die, _made me live this whole time thinking he was dead, grieve and try to move on—hunt down who I _thought_ had killed him."

"Well, I'm not saying you should forgive him," Lestrade reasoned, "but you can't cut him out of your life forever."

"Why not? He did it to me."

"He came back."

"Well I'm not. I'm not going back. "

"John, I understand why you're angry, I'm angry too and it can only be worse for you because you were so much closer to Sherlock…but that's just the thing. You were close to him. More than anyone. I worked with Sherlock for five years before he met you and he never cared about me the way he cared—_cares_ about you—he doesn't even care about his own brother the way he cares about you! So whatever the reason was why he…did what he did, it must have been important because he'd never want to hurt you. You changed him, John. He never had any friends, never cared about anyone or anything but his cases before you but you changed him and I don't think it would be good for him to go back to the way he was before you."

John sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head again.

"….he changed me, too. But not for the better. When Sherlock died—or, at least, when I_ thought_ he died—I was sad. For the first week I just felt empty…but then, after that, I was angry. I got so angry…so angry that I was actually_ happy_ when it turned out Moriarty was alive, because that meant I'd be able to track him down and kill him. Not only for revenge, but just to have something to do. I was bored, without Sherlock I was bored… I'd lived my whole life up until I met him without getting bored—not the way_ he_ gets bored, like an addict needing a fix…But after he was gone, it was like I didn't know what to do with myself anymore. I was bored and I _needed_ something to do, the way he always did, and the only thing I knew to do chase criminals the way we did for his cases. _Chase Moriarty. "_

"I don't see how that's necessarily a bad thing."

"I'll tell you why it's a bad thing. You see, while Sherlock was starting to care… I was starting_ not _to. When Moriarty first strapped bombs to those hostages, blew up that poor old woman, I was _worried sick._ I cared about them, even though I didn't know them, even though caring didn't help s_ave_ them. I couldn't help it, it was an involuntary thing. I just cared…but somehow, somewhere along the way while I was working with Sherlock, I stopped. I stopped caring. I'm becoming just like him, like he was—"

"It could be related to the war. You saw things—"

"Yes. Terrible things. I know. I remember. But those things only made me want to _help _people more, not_ hurt_ them. All this—living Sherlock, Sherlock 'dying'—it just makes me want to hurt people. _Kill _them. You have no idea how much I just wanted to kill Moriarty, see him in pain and watch him die, knowing I was the one that caused it. It would have made me so… _happy. _Happy—and that makes me _sick_ now, just thinking about it."

"You know Moriarty deserves it. You know the world would be a better place without him in it. And you were willing to die to make that happen, just a few days ago, in Argentina."

"I know. And I was wrong. I was angry, I didn't care if I lived or died because I though Sherlock was dead. I thought he'd died because of Moriarty's stupid games…but now I know he's alive and this was all just another stupid game. I'm not angry anymore, but I still don't care. I don't care about Sherlock and I don't think I ever can again."

Now Lestrade sighed.

"You don't mean that, John." He said, "You wouldn't have said it if you did. And even if you do mean it, that doesn't mean you want Sherlock to die or be dead and I might not be glad he lied but I am glad that he's alive. I called you because Mycroft's headquarters is about to be attacked and I wanted to make sure you were out of there because I never saw you leave. Now, I don't care if that prison gets destroyed or what happens to Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, or whoever else is in there—except for _Sherlock._ If he's there, we've got to warn him."

"Why should we?" John countered, shrugging, "Sherlock didn't need our help with whatever he's been doing while being 'dead' so why should we help him now?"

"_Because he's our friend!" _Lestrade declared, almost shouting, "Your _best_ friend! Stop being angry for just one second and remember that. You and Sherlock were like brothers, and I've seen firsthand how miserable you've been without him and I bet he's been just as miserable. If Samantha's plan to get her brother out of that prison goes wrong and Sherlock's there, he could get hurt. _Die._ For real this time. We've just found out he's still alive and we can't let that happen. So, if you won't warn him, _I_ will."

"Then do it, Greg." John allowed, emotionlessly, "…I'm going home. It's been a long month."

Lestrade stared, shocked and helplessly, as a tired and defeated looking John turned and started back down the hall he'd come up through in the direction of the elevators.

* * *

They were silent for a long, long time.

Sherlock just standing where he had been standing when John turned and walked (not limped) away from him, staring at the empty spot on the tile floor as if John would magically reappear there or come running back into the hall (and to him) from where he'd gone.

But he didn't.

Mycroft stood watching Sherlock wait for John like a puppy waiting in the same spot for a master that would never return, waiting for Sherlock to 'come to his senses' and _just move. _

Caring truly was not an advantage.

Finally, Mycroft sighed and said, "Sherlock, we can't do this all night…"

"I have to go after him." Sherlock replied, not turning around to face his brother and still not moving, "When people walk away like that, they want you to go after them.

Mycroft would have rolled his eyes at Sherlock's simplistic understanding of petty but complex human behavior and emotion but he just didn't have the energy to be sarcastic.

"John's not a woman." Mycroft explained, "He didn't walk away because he wanted you to follow, he walked away because he didn't want to punch you."

At that, Sherlock did move. He turned around and looked at Mycroft.

"This is your fault." He stated, "If you hadn't released Jim the first time you had him captive, none of this would have ever occurred."

"I've already apologized for that, there's nothing more I can do." Mycroft reminded, now suddenly finding the energy to roll his yes, "And blaming me for what happened in the past won't remedy your problems now."

"Well, speaking of problems now…why did you leave a dangerous killer alone in a cell with another prisoner whom he has a history of harming? And you say I'm the irresponsible one, _Mycroft…"_

"Jim Moriarty is wheelchair bound, all but immobile. The worst he can do is kill himself—which would actually quite helpful to us."

"_Or_ he could kill the other prisoner."

"Well, that's what the other prisoner _wanted._ To die."

"And you'd allow that to happen?"

"Why not? It saves my employees the trouble, doesn't it? Put Jim Moriarty to work. Aren't you doing the same thing? Wasn't it you who sent him to Argentina to collect that gallery of identical forged paintings I confiscated? His misguided girlfriend seems to think it was."

Now Sherlock rolled _his_ eyes. He shook his head in disgust—not at Mycroft, but at himself because Mycroft was _right_ and he regretted ever working with Jim.

Jim travelling to Argentina had sent John and Lestrade after him. Judging by the injuries that Jim and Moran had gotten there (neither of which Sherlock had seen for himself yet), if things had gone only slightly differently John and Lestrade could have been the ones seriously injured. Which was exactly what Sherlock had been trying to avoid.

"I _did."_ Sherlock admitted, "But I won't work with him ever again. Do what you want with him now, I don't care."

"So you won't object if I have him executed?" Mycroft checked, raising an eyebrow.

"_No."_ Sherlock confirmed, with a nod, "I won't."

"Alright." Mycroft accepted. He smiled but it wasn't real.

Mycroft never wanted Sherlock to care because he knew he was more fragile than he let on and he didn't want him to get hurt. But hearing his little brother consent to an execution, even his biggest enemy, was still a bit unnerving.

In a strange, rare, and _even more_ unnerving gesture Sherlock mirrored Mycroft's smile. Except his_ was_ real.

Mycroft blinked in surprise at this but gave no other outward reaction.

"Alright." Sherlock repeated, "You do what you want to your prisoner, I won't stop you. And I'm going after John, now. Don't try to stop me."

And with that, Sherlock turned back around and walked down the tan wallpapered hall and out of the building the way John had.

Mycroft stood still and silent, watching him go. He didn't move until he was gone.

* * *

"If I tell you why that man wanted to die, you can't interrupt me until I finish my story. You can't whine about how terrible I am, how selfish and cruel I was to do what I did."

Jim, who was still in pain from being shot and whose arms were still weak from strangling Rudras Wiggins to death with almost all his available strength, wheeled himself towards Molly.

If he was mentally occupied with talking to her, then he wouldn't feel the lingering physical pain.

"Why not? I though that's what you wanted me to do. Tell you you're wrong and try to stop you."

Molly didn't move. She didn't move towards Jim to make it easier for him but she didn't move away from him, either, because she wanted him to know (think) she wasn't afraid.

Every time she stood up to him and survived, she got braver. Stronger.

"And_ you_ said you didn't want to do that anymore. I'm only accommodating you, my dear. Besides, I'm tired of fighting."

Jim was careful to sound insincere and patronizing every time he ever spoke to Molly as if he cared about her.

…but it was because he took such care to make sure she thought he didn't care about her, that she suspected that he actually _did._

(And maybe that was his motive all along.)

"The 'fight' is over, Jim." Molly dismissed, matter-of-factly, "You win. I give up."

It meant something else, this time. Not that she'd given into being Jim's personal plaything (or her own desire to be with him and not be alone).

_No._ This time it just meant what she had said a few hours before; that she was done trying to prevent him from committing crimes. She'd given up on the impossible mission that was her excuse for being in a 'relationship' with him.

And this bothered Jim far more than her 'breaking-up' with him.

Sex didn't matter to him. He couldn't even enjoy it unless he was manipulating the other person (or people) he was with.

He'd gotten off with Molly because of their opposites-attract dynamic, her extreme and gratifying emotional reactions whenever he messed with her, her futile attempts to stop him from hurting people and, _of course, _their mutual connection to and interested in Sherlock Holmes.

The most important part of their 'relationship' was their incompatibility. And if Molly was surrendering to it instead of fighting against it so that they could be together, then she was boring and of no use to him.

But since she had become a favorite toy of his he didn't want to throw her away, he just wanted to_ fix_ her.

(Of course, the only way to do that was to _break_ all her newfound resolve and self-confidence.)

"Oh, well, I do like to win." Jim acquiesced, "So whatever you say. Whatever makes you happy…"

"_Happy?!" _Molly repeated, taken aback, "How can I be happy with any of this? You just killed someone when you _promised _you wouldn't kill again. I trusted you and you let me down. _Again."_

"Sorry." Jim shrugged.

"No." Molly shook her head, "No, you're not sorry. You're _never _sorry. You have no remorse, you don't care about how anyone feels—"

"I care about how _I_ feel." Jim corrected, leaning back in his wheelchair.

He tried to put his arms behind his head, but was unable to lift the one that had been grazed without it aching so dropped it back down onto the armrest and used the other to scratch the back of his head as if that had been his intention all along.

Molly watched unimpressed. Her formerly emotionless face was molding like clay into the folds and wrinkles of feelings. Anger. Frustration. _Heartbreak._

"Yes, and that's all you do care about." Molly agreed, now nodding, _"Yourself." _

She was bitter and bitchy and critical of him. Everything a girlfriend was supposed to be.

She was challenging him, calling him out on his lack of morals, trying to make him understand that he was wrong—the same thing she had been trying to do since she had found out who he really was and slept with him anyway.

This was the Molly Hooper he knew and loved.

Jim smiled.

* * *

It was just past twelve in the early morning when Mrs. Hudson awoke upon hearing a knock on her front door.

Not bothering to turn on the light, she slipped out of bed and into her slippers, and went to answer the door in her nightgown (the cameras planted to monitor Sherlock had seen it before, anyway, what did she have to hide now?).

Opening the door (only a jar because it was late at night) Mrs. Hudson was shocked to see (the former) detective inspector Gregory Lestrade standing in front of her, smiling apologetically.

The last time she had answered the door to see him, he had come to arrest Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson didn't smile back.

She had seen him at Sherlock's funeral, but they hadn't spoken since before Sherlock had died. And, honestly, she didn't have anything to say to him.

"How can I help you, inspector?" Mrs. Hudson inquired.

"Oh, uh, actually I'm not a DI anymore." Lestrade informed, then clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Then what is this about?" Mrs. Hudson questioned, confused and suspiciously, using the door as a shield between her and the midnight caller.

"Well…" Lestrade began, "I was wondering if you'd mind watching my children for me. There's something I have to do and there's really nowhere else safe I can leave them."

Cautiously, Mrs. Hudson pulled the front door open further.

Just as Lestrade had said, two children—a boy and a girl—stood on either side of him, their eyes and entire pajama-clad bodies drooping with sleepiness from staying up this late.

Mrs. Hudson took a breath, considering Lestrade's request. When she'd exhaled, she'd decided to help him. (There _were _innocent children involved, after all.)

She bent down to the childrens' height, smiling at them and extending her hands.

"What are your names?" she asked.

She had never had children of her own.

"I'm Katherine." Katherine answered, first because she was the oldest, then adding "and he's Georgie," when she glanced over to see her brother dosing against their father's side, using his nickname because he was still a 'little kid'.

"Nice to meet you, Katherine and Georgie." Mrs. Hudson greeted, "I'm Mrs. Hudson and I'll be looking after you for awhile, until your father gets back from…doing whatever it is he has to do," she looked up at Lestrade disapprovingly, wondering if he was off to see another, younger woman at this midnight hour once he'd disposed of his kids for the night.

"Thank you so much." Lestrade thanked her, gratefully, ignoring the look.

She would be in a better mood just a few hours from now. When it was light outside and she learned that her favorite tenant was still alive.

Mrs. Hudson took George and Katherine's hands and led them into 221 Baker Street, closing the door behind her and Lestrade walked back out into the London night.

* * *

Anthea had been twiddling her thumbs, seated on the ugly and uncomfortable couch (which one identical was found in every cell) inside the apartment-cell Mycroft had had her locked inside for a 'time-out'.

She was having a nice chat with her guard, a fellow female employee in a black skirtsuit, about a variety of topics from politics to pop-culture when the two women heard a knock on the door.

The employee stood up from where she was sitting next to Anthea to answer it, Anthea following behind her just because she was curious to see who it was (since it was too early for a shift change).

As suspected, it was Mycroft Holmes; come to his senses about how much he needed his second-in-command employee (even when she was without her signature smartphone).

He stepped aside to allow both female employees to exit the room.

Seeing that she no longer had a 'prisoner' to guard, the black-suited employee strolled away to take an early and extended coffee break. The nightshift was difficult and she was getting sleepy.

Once she was gone, Mycroft turned to Anthea.

"You really need to train the hires better." He stated, folding his arms and glancing over at the other woman who was walking away with mild disapproval.

"Why is that, sir?" Anthea asked.

"Because they allowed John Watson to explore the building, locate the plastic surgeon, see the fake corpse of Jim Moriarty, and then tried to resolve the situation by locking him in a makeshift cell—your office, to be exact." Mycroft explained.

"Oh." Anthea accepted, "…but to be fair, they were not trained to manage a secret prison that even the rest of the British government doesn't know about. They were trained to be intelligence gatherers and interpreters, desk workers."

Suddenly, before Mycroft could respond to this (or, so he didn't have to because Anthea did have a point), Lestrade came jogging down the ground floor hallway up to them.

"Mr. Lestrade." Mycroft greeting, he and Anthea both turning to face him, "I didn't expect to see you back here so soon—or at all."

"Where is Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded, "I know he's alive."

"Oh, so you've spoken to Doctor Watson." Mycroft deduced, "Well, I'm sorry to inform you that my brother has 'left the building'."

"Good." Lestrade said, before he could stop him.

"Good?" Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow, "Why is that 'good'?"

Lestrade grimaced. He hadn't _planned _on telling Mycroft about Samantha Moran's plan to attack the secret prison disguised as an apartment building, feeling that Mycroft deserved such a surprise for lying to him and John about Jim Moriarty and Sherlock…

…but now that he had already come all this way, was already here and had already said something that had implied his reason for doing so (and had a conscience so would feel bad if anybody got hurt), Lestrade decided to just tell him.

"Because Samantha Moran took control of The Custodian Group by force, she is coming here with fifty private military employees from." He told him, "They're going to storm the building and break her brother Sebastian Moran out."

"_What?!"_ Anthea cried, in shock and anger. She had never liked that redhead pantsuit-wearing woman, anyway (although she did kind of like her brother…)

Mycroft managed to maintain his calm exterior.

"Are they?" he tested, then turning from Lestrade to Anthea, "Looks like I let you out just in time to rally the troops. We're going to war."

"In the middle of London!?" Lestrade exclaimed, "That's crazy! I'm warning you so you can get your people and get out. I can't believe Samantha would be stupid enough to do this, it's practically suicide, but I know you're not stupid enough to do this here, Mycroft."

"Of course not." Mycroft affirmed, "But I can…sympathize with the 'stupidity' of sentiment that arises from caring about one's sibling."

"…_or_ Miss Moran wants a violent and public showdown between Porlock's people and yours, Mr. Holmes." Anthea countered, providing a second opinion, "Both you and Porlock get blamed for the damage and lose your jobs. She officially gets power over the private military with you no longer in her way, the company operates without any obstacles."

"Yes," Mycroft accepted, "That's what I meant."

"So what should we do, then, sir?" Anthea asked.

"It's already being taken care of as we speak." Mycroft said, "There is just one more thing I must do. You, on the other hand, can go attend to our favorite prisoners."

Anthea gave Mycroft a questioning look but didn't question him openly (she wasn't going to risk it after just being released from a prison cell of all places). Although, how the problem of Samantha Moran could 'already' be 'being taken care of' or what final thing her employer had to do Anthea did not know…

She started away, towards the upstairs where she knew both Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper (who was never too far from the former) would be while Mycroft started away in the opposite direction do whatever it was he had to do.

Once they were gone, Lestrade was left standing in the middle of the hallway, awkwardly, wondering what he should do.

Finally shrugging, he started away in a third direction towards the breakroom he'd seen an attractive skirtsuited woman go into as he'd been jogging through the apartment building in search of Sherlock.

Since he had already come all this way and was already here, he might as well make the most of it…

* * *

Jim smiled and now, after making her angry and so restoring her will to fight (by destroying her will _not_ to), it was time to regain Molly's sympathies.

"I care about _Sherlock, _too." Jim insisted, "…and _you._ That's right, little Mouse Molly Hooper, you're on the same list as Sherlock Holmes. You should feel flattered."

"You don't care about me." Molly insisted, even going so far as to roll her eyes, "You never did. I'm just a distraction to you since you can't have Sherlock. But not anymore."

Jim sighed, _almost_ sadly. 'Almost' because he was trying not to smile while he was trying to act sad.

"…then you should leave." He recommended, "Escape now, while you have the chance. Why are you still here, anyway? It's not like you care about me at the moment, fickle girl, so it can't be because you don't want to leave me. Is it because I'm in a wheelchair and you'd feel bad for abandoning a cripple?

"You're right." Molly lied and told the truth, "I don't care about you anymore. The only reason I'm still here is because if I tried to leave, they would catch me anyway…and because I don't want to be alone. In fact, I think, that was the only reason I ever stayed with you. Because I didn't want to be alone. What we had…it was never real. Not for you, and we both always knew that…and not for _me,_ either."

Jim blinked at her words. He was genuinely surprised to hear her say (admit?) this.

The words were meant to hurt him, of course. But Jim_ liked_ being surprised. It kept life interesting.

He couldn't help grinning. It had become an automatic reaction to being insulted, meant to prove that he hadn't been negatively affected and was still in control—of himself and the situation.

"Then open that window for me so that I can fall out of it and finally die. For real this time." Jim requested, gesturing to the curtain obscuring the glass sliding-door that led to the balcony he could catapult himself off of to his death (if the door was open and he wanted to), "With me dead, Mycroft'll know you're not a threat. He'll let you go and you can go back to your life."

"I already told you, Jim, I'm not going to do that." Molly stated, "I won't help you kill yourself."

"Coward." Jim taunted, _"Scaredy-cat..." _

"I've never denied that." Molly accepted, "That was always you. But I'm not afraid now. I'm really not. Want to know why?"

"Why?" Jim indulged, raising and eyebrow and still smirking.

"Because you got shot the one time you were actually doing the right thing by helping Sherlock, you've just broken your promise by killing someone, and we're both in custody and we'll probably never get out." Molly listed, laughing hopelessly, "Things can't get any worse than this, can they?"

Jim laughed too, but before he could respond cryptically Anthea entered the room to do it for him.

"We're under attack." Anthea informed, matter-of-factly, "Samantha Moran is on her way here with fifty gun men to break her brother out. Just thought you'd like to know."

Jim had him had his back to her but because she'd changed out of Jim's shoes (although he still hadn't gotten them back and was still only in socks) and was back in high heels that clicked against the hardwood floor to announce her arrival, he could tell who it was standing behind him.

He looked up at Molly's reaction to seeing Anthea. She looked slightly scared (so much for not being afraid) but not very surprised. After all, it was reasonable to assume Anthea or some employee would come looking for Molly or come to check on Jim (and the poor prisoner that had been so irresponsibly left in a cell with him to get killed).

"Are we going to evacuate?!" Molly inquired, urgently, "What are we going to do?!"

Anthea smiled, crossing the room past Jim and then past Molly, all the way over to the curtained window-door.

She pulled the curtain out of the way to reveal their reflections in the glass and the dark sky outside. The lights of other buildings were also visible and from far away they looked like stars.

Anthea then pulled open the sliding door, Molly watching in horror, allowing the cold night air to blow into the room along with the sounds of the city.

Jim wheeled himself forward, closer to it.

Instinctively and automatically, Molly moved to stand in his way.

Logically, this didn't mean she would stop him if he tried to wheel himself over and off the edge, it just meant that they both would fall. Emotionally_,_ this meant the exact same thing.

Anthea turned around to face and chuckle at the (currently broken-up) 'couple'.

"You two can watch and enjoy the show." Anthea invited, gesturing towards the balcony ahead like a magician's lovely assistant would gesture towards the magician's next trick. (Except she, in this particular situation, was also the magician. Quite the trick indeed.), "I have a plan."

She stepped aside so that Jim and Molly could tentatively approach the balcony, Molly holding tightly to Jim's shoulder as if she could actually prevent him from falling off of it if he really wanted to. Thankfully, there was a railing separating them from the drop ahead and below.

And, outside, ahead and below, Molly and Jim could see the armored trucks of a certain private military company roll onto the construction site, shinning silver and metallic in the night.

* * *

Anthea, having no idea where Mycroft was or what he was doing (but assuming it was something that would result in him bursting in at the last moment to break up the battle), did not intend to just sit around and wait while the secret prison was attacked.

Dressed like the darkness in the sky, Anthea led a team of fifty black-suited employees toting guns out onto the unstable mud of the construction site. The lights strung around by exposed wiring came on, illuminating the would-be 'battlefield' like a stadium.

Across from her employees parked the tank-looking armored cars. Out of them marched a team fifty gray-uniformed employees also toting guns led by Samantha.

The two respective teams lined up, aiming their weapons and glaring at each other.

Anthea found this situation very similar to one that had occurred earlier that month all the way out in the countryside. But this was the city. If they had a shootout here, everyone (the public, the government, even the Queen!) would know about it—they'd hear it as it was happening, perhaps even get hit by a stray bullet.

Anthea knew that this was exactly what Samantha wanted.

"Where is my brother?" she demanded, "Hand him over. _Now."_

"Okay." Anthea agreed.

Samantha blinked, taken aback.

"Okay?" she repeated in surprise, checking to make sure she had heard correctly.

"Okay." Anthea affirmed, nodding, "He's all yours."

Gesturing to the rows of black-suited men (and the occasional woman), Anthea stepped out of the way so that Sebastian Moran could emerge from the masses wearing the orange prison jumpsuit he had been forced into.

Samantha's eyes narrowed—but not in concern that her brother had a cast on his leg and was walking with crutches.

"You're just going to set him free? Just like that?" she disbelieved, "He's a dangerous killer. This is some sort of a trick, I know how you people work."

"It's not a trick." Anthea promised, "Sebastian Moran is free to go."

"I am?" Moran checked, glancing at Anthea (just to make sure that it _actually wasn't_ some sort of a trick) who nodded in confirmation to which he said, "Good. Then I'm leaving."

And with that, Moran clutched his crutches and walked himself past his sister, past the armored trucks and their gray-uniformed men, and out of the construction site.

Both Samantha and Anthea (and all their respective employees) watched him in silence as he got further and further away into the city, until he was no longer visible even under the glow of the streetlamps.

Then, Anthea turned back to Samantha.

"There," she said, "We set your brother free. So if you truly want him, you better go find him before he gets too far away." She pointed at the distance Moran had disappeared into.

Samantha was quiet for a moment, thinking. Things had not gone as she had planned. First of all, the government employees weren't even supposed to know she and her employees were coming. Gregory Lestrade must have tipped them off. She'd have to fire him—except, he already quit…

"We don't want a war." Anthea continued, "We gave you what you wanted. Now go."

"You're going to have to force us." Samantha declared, folding her arms and standing firm (the gray pants of her pantsuit getting muddy—see, this was why Anthea wore skirts), "Shoot us…or we'll shoot _you _first."

Her gunmen readied their guns in echo.

"We surrender." Anthea declared, raising her arms, "Shoot us all you like but you will be the only belligerent here."

And _her _gunmen _dropped_ their guns in echo.

"_What?!"_ Samantha exclaimed.

"We're not fighting back." Anthea reiterated, "There will be no war in London."

On the balcony of an apartment in the secret prison disguised as an apartment building that hadn't been converted into a cell, stood and sat Molly Hooper and Jim Moriarty (respectively).

From above, they watched the scene below in which Anthea and Samantha confronted each other and Sebastian Moran hobbled away on crutches into night. They doubted they'd ever see him again.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" Molly asked Jim.

"No…" Jim answered, annoyedly.

All this drama and no dialogue. _Boring. _

…but then all of the black-suited government employees set their guns down onto the mud and raised their arms in surrender. Unexpected. _Interesting…_

And then, the helicopter.

* * *

There was just the tornado-strength gusts of wind blasting everybody (and mud) with powerful blows. From the sky, the machine came down like a descending god—but not all the way down because with all the gunmen on the ground there was nowhere for it to land on the construction site.

Therefore, the helicopter was forced to ascend once again and land on the roof of the apartment building.

Anthea waited patiently on the ground for the person(s) (most likely Mycroft) on the helicopter to climb down all the floors of the secret prison and exit it onto the muddy but well-lit construction site outside.

Finally, after about ten minutes, a slightly disgruntled Mycroft Holmes did emerge from the building (unhappily getting mud on his nice expensive shoes), followed by the unlucky suspects who had been conscripted into taking part in his current plan.

* * *

Despite the height and the darkness, Jim and Molly were able to recognize most of the people who exited the apartment building that they were prisoners inside.

First Mycroft, then Jim's brother James (no longer wearing a prison uniform and back in a suit), and then that bald man who had taken Jim's phone Porlock.

Anthea, Samantha, and all the gunmen turned to them as they moved to stand in the middle of the construction site, between two 'armies'.

Molly and Jim were unable to hear what was being said and so the reason that they were not all shot to death by Samantha's employees was lost on them.

* * *

"And what is this supposed to be?" Samantha snapped, gesturing to the recently arrived but glaring at Anthea, "I knew you would try to trick me."

"I didn't plan this." Anthea shrugged, "And if you had left when I asked you to, you wouldn't be here dealing with whatever _'this'_ is."

"I'd be happy to tell you what 'this' is." Mycroft announced, smiling diplomatically at both Anthea and Samantha and both sides of the 'battle', _"This_ is the much needed détente to the conflict about to take place."

"Actually, sir, there wasn't going to _be_ a fight." Anthea stated, turning to him, "Our side already surrendered and The Custodian Group isn't going to ruin its reputation by massacring government workers without provocation."

"Well, thank you for stalling hostilities until I arrived." Mycroft accepted, patronizingly, smiling politely, "Now _my _plan will provide a permanent solution to the problem at hand."

"Oh yeah?" Samantha snorted, folding her arms at him, "And what _is_ 'your plan', Mr. Holmes?" She looked unafraid but for the fact that she backed up into the safety of her employees and armored vehicles.

"I'll let your former employer, Mr. Porlock, tell you that." Mycroft replied, turning to her and gesturing at Porlock who'd been standing awkwardly next to and slightly behind him waiting for his part in the plan.

He stepped forward to address the employee who had hidden in his office and held him at gunpoint as soon as he had entered earlier that evening, demanding control of the company. (And this was all really a shame because he'd known both Moran siblings as children, being friends with their father, and regretted that they'd both grown up into such violent, lawless people. At least Sebastian had _some_ self-control.)

"I sold the company." Porlock told Samantha, "I'm sorry, 'Sam'. But you're no longer in charge. Stealing power from me means nothing if _I_ don't have it for you to steal it from."

"No,_ I_ was buying the company, you were selling it to _me! _Remember?" Samantha reminded, turning to glare at him now, "What happened to all the shares I already purchased? You can't have sold _those."_

"I bought them back." Porlock explained, "Check your bank account. The money had been refunded."

"You can't just do that." Samantha dismissed, "The stock market doesn't work that way. Both parties and their brokers have to agree to the sale."

"Well, you know he knows people in the finance industry, you've seen his file." Porlock excused, gesturing over at James who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but there (except, maybe, an apartment-cell in the nearby apartment-prison), "He made it work in exchange for his freedom."

Samantha groaned.

"You can't just sell an entire company to the government." She countered, "Not in this age of privatization."

"I didn't sell it to the government." Porlock agreed, matter-of-factly, "I sold it to James Moriarty." Again, he gestured over at James who didn't bother to even glance at either of them.

Instead James was contemplating whether he should try to 'make a run for it' or not. Although Mycroft had released him from the prison so that he could buy the private military company, making it no longer a threat to Mycroft's operation, for all he knew Mycroft would just arrest him again once this was all over. He wondered if Moran was still in custody. He wondered if his _brother_ was…

Samantha sighed, finally giving up.

"I'll just be going now…" she said, "Have a nice life, Mr. Porlock, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Moriarty…" she nodded at the three men in turn and then turned to quickly retreat out of the construction site in the direction her brother had gone.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Afterwards, with his eyes, he signaled to Anthea to signal to the other black-suited employees that they should follow Samantha and capture her for her attempted transgressions against them.

Anthea nodded and was just about to give the order when Porlock turned to her and Mycroft. The look in his eyes wasn't exactly pleading, but it did contain pity for his former employee.

"Please," he requested, "Just let her go."

Now Mycroft sighed, again rolling his eyes.

"_Oh, very well…"_ he agreed, reluctantly.

He, Anthea and Porlock watched Samantha hurry away until she was out of sight as well. They sincerely hoped they would never see her again and that she would be of no future trouble to any of them.

"And I'll go now, too, if I'm not under arrest." Porlock said when she was gone.

Mycroft nodded and allowed him to walk way. He didn't go very far, though. He just left the muddy construction site to stand on the curb of the sidewalk as he spoke on his cellphone. After he hung up, he waited a few minutes until a fancy car came to pick him up. Then, he got inside and was finally driven away, never to be seen again.

After watching him leave, James turned to Mycroft.

"And what about me?" he asked, cautiously.

"What about you?" Mycroft returned, turning to him and shrugging, "You just purchased a private military company. You have fifty men with guns and ten armored vehicles right here to protect you. I think you're free to go—unless, of course, you _want _to be in custody."

"No thank you." James refused, smiling politely, "…but what about my brother? Is Jim here?"

"Yes." Mycroft confirmed, with a nod. It was short and radiated omission.

"…is he alive?" James questioned, apprehensive about what the answer would be. He didn't know whether he'd be sad or relieved to he hear his brother was dead and he didn't know whether he'd be happy or disappointed to hear his brother was alive.

"Yes." Mycroft repeated, "…Now, do you want to use your new army to fight for his freedom and become my enemy again…or do you want to leave now with your private military and keep your freedom _and_ the peace between us?"

"Take good care of him for me." James said, without more than a second of silent consideration.

He turned away from Mycroft towards his fifty new employees (some of whom he'd actually hired before), examining to gage whether they accepted him as their new employer.

The gray-uniformed men glanced around at each other and then back at James, shrugging in acceptance. He nodded in return and they all got into the metallic armored cars and drove away, out of the construction site in a single-file line.

Now, milling about in the mud, were all the black-suited employees. Talking amongst themselves, they retrieved their guns from the ground and upon being dismissed by Mycroft, returned inside to the secret prison.

As they moved like heard back towards the building, out of the crowd emerged Lestrade who stood out amongst them, wearing a gray uniform instead of a black suit.

"Oh. You're still here, Mr. Lestrade?" Mycroft addressed him in mild surprise.

"I might as well see this through until the end, since I'm already here." Lestrade reasoned, with a shrug, "Seems like the right thing to do."

"And was the 'right thing to do' telling Samantha Moran how to find us here?" Mycroft inquired, with a chuckle and raised eyebrow.

"...it was the right thing to do to get her out of my house and away from my kids." Lestrade excused, "Besides, I warned you she was on her way and everything worked out alright, didn't it? And after you lied to to John and me so much, you can't really get angry at me now."

"I suppose you're right..." Mycroft conceded.

"But what _do_ we do now, sir?" Anthea questioned her boss.

"We have to close down this prison." Mycroft decided, "Too many possibly dangerous people know where it is now. I want it empty and destroyed by noon today."

"Yes sir." Anthea nodded.

She then turned and tramped through the mud back into the apartment building to begin its evacuation and destruction.

Mycroft and Lestrade followed her inside.

* * *

Inside, Molly had wheeled Jim back into the bright room that hadn't been converted yet into a prison cell and now never would be.

She was thankful that he hadn't dramatically thrown himself off of the balcony while he'd had an audience available to show off for.

"I don't know what just happened," she said, still careful to close the glass sliding door behind her, "but I don't think it had anything to do with us." She left the curtain open.

"And here I thought the world revolved around me…" Jim sighed, sarcastically, resting the side of his head in the palm of his hand and his elbow on the armrest of the wheelchair.

Upon hearing his voice, Molly turned around to face him. He was smirking unenthusiastically. She was angry at him but she couldn't help but smile, too.

"Now that Mycroft and Anthea are done with…whatever that was, they'll be coming back up here for us." Molly predicted, evenly, "What do you think they're going to do to us?"

"What do you want me to say to that?" Jim asked, "That it won't matter what they do to us because we'll be together? That's too cliché. Boring. And like you said, it wouldn't be _real…"_

"Well, like what _you _always say; what is 'real', anyway? The word doesn't really mean anything." Molly returned, "And you know what they say about 'cliché', too, don't you?"

"Oh?" Jim inquired, raising eyebrow, "What is it that they say?"

"They say that 'there is nothing new under the sun'." Molly troped, a saying that she had read and heard in many instances (including John Watson's blog in regards to the fortune of a fortune cooking he'd gotten from a Chinese restaurant), "Want to know why?"

"Why?" Jim indulged.

"Because everything gets repeated." Molly answered, "And the things that get repeated the most get repeated because they're the most important, the things that people care about the most. It doesn't make them less valuable—it means they're _more _valuable."

To this, Jim snorted…but he also smiled.

"Hey look," he changed the subject, gesturing to the uncurtained window behind Molly, and the halo of orange light shining around her, "The sun's coming up."

She turned back around and he wheeled himself up next to her. Together, they watched the sunrise.

* * *

**Two more chapters to go and then an epilogue which may be a separate story just so this story can have an even thirty chapters. **

**I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review! **


	29. The Numbers

**It has been wayyyyyy too long. I am so sorry.**

**First, I was legitimately busy with school and life. Then, I was lazy. Then the tragedy of the bombing in Boston occurred and I decided the chapter wasn't appropriate to post (or write) just yet, for reasons you might notice when reading. **

**I'll also say my usual apology of this is filler because this is most likely filler, in the form of flashback.**

**I think its important to the story, though, of course, because it provides background that explains much of the stuff that has happened in earlier chapters and in The Mouse and the Spider. **

**That being said, I really hope you enjoy it and stick with me until the last chapter! **

**Thank you so much for making this far! **

* * *

There were four James Moriartys. _Were._

Now there are two.

Number Four goes by 'Jim' (or, on rare occasions, 'Napoleon' (short for 'The Napoleon of Crime')).Some say he never even existed at all.

Number Two is a nobody by choice (which is fine because nobody much cares about him, anyway).

Number Three and Number One are dead.

* * *

**(Northern Ireland, 1966.) **

James Moriarty Number One—or, more traditionally called The First—went by his initial 'J'—or, more phonetically spelled, 'Jay'.

His 'coworkers' had given him the nickname 'The Fox' (or just 'Fox' for short) because of his reddish-orange colored hair…

…and because of his slick and sly ability to commit any crime he was assigned (usually some kind of robbery or burglary but sometimes knifing or beating someone up) and get away, quick, without leaving any evidence behind, as well always get away with it. He was also pretty tricky, too.

And sure, he was smart, in the cerebral sense as well as the criminal, but he didn't act it all the time.

One such time was the spring of 1966...

Everyone else was worrying about the elections, and the Soviet Union launching a probe into space, and Rhodesia, and The Beatles.

Not Jay. Jay was 27, and after growing up a petty criminal (due to having an imprisoned father and an overwhelmed mother with four other children (some of whom were suspiciously conceived after her husband had been incarcerated) he graduated to committing felonies and joined the scattered remains of a guerilla army (of which his father was also a member) that had (temporarily) put aside their cause in order to focus on survival.

On his way to meet with his boss and some friends, Jay cut through a park of trees, grass, flowers and people. It was relatively warm day, sort of sunny and calm (but not in the way that was unsettling).

Suddenly he felt someone come up behind him, catching their shadow in his peripheral vision. Whirling around to confront his attacker (and reaching for the gun in his jacket).

Instead of a threat, he saw a woman (not that women were incapable of being a threat, they'd proven they weren't because of all that feminism nonsense going on).

She was young, a university student perhaps, with dark hair and even darker eyes that immediately drew poor, helpless Jay in.

He looked away and over his shoulder. An old woman was sitting on a bench while her grandsons chased a small flock of birds. He looked back at the girl.

She didn't smile, but she did extend a pale hand. It held a long green stem and a flower in full bloom; it's blossom a bright purple.

"For you." she said.

Jay tensed at her accent. English-sounding and so automatically suspicious. Still, she didn't look like much of a threat (but, of course, looks could be deceiving).

"You damn hippies…" he grumbled, rolling his eyes and attempting to push past her and continue on his way.

She didn't let him. In a swift and graceful motion (much like his sleek and fast burglary style) the young woman moved to block his path and stand in front of him on the grass beneath their feet.

"Take it." she insisted, shoving the flower into his chest because one of his hands was trying to push her away and the other hand was still on his gun, "It has five petals."

"So?" Jay shrugged. He finally took the plant, twirling it around between its fingers and confirming that it did indeed have five purple petals.

He wondered if this was some sort of distraction and so glanced around at the park cautiously (nobody _looked_ out of the ordinary (but, of course, looks could be deceiving)) and kept his and on the gun in his pocket.

"It's a spider flower." The young woman identified, "It's supposed to have six."

"So?" Jay repeated.

The young woman's patterned dress and bare feet basically confirmed that she was a hippy (well, at least she wasn't a Mod or a hipster) and the importance she placed on this flower and the number of petals it had basically confirmed that she was most likely high on drugs, as well.

Great.

"So it's missing something." The woman explained, "…and so are you."

Jay looked at her and then looked at the flower, slightly crumpled now, in his hand. He looked back at the girl. His other hand he took off the gun.

Maybe she was right. _Maybe he was missing something…_

(Or maybe it was just all the pollen in the spring air.)

"What's your name?" Jay asked the young woman with the brown riverflow hair and black whirlpool eyes.

"Avis." She answered. The name meant 'bird' but it also meant 'desired'. Jay decided she was both.

"I'm Jay." Jay returned.

"Not it's not." Avis dismissed, shaking her head, "Try again."

"James." Jay tried again, admitting his full first name which he had always been embarrassed by (too Anglo-sounding).

And, at this, Avis finally smiled.

* * *

Jay had vowed that he would never marry an English girl. Of all the sins he had committed and would commit (stealing, lying, extramarital sex, living in sin, having children out, and murder) none were so heinous in the 'bible' of his life as marrying an English girl.

And so he didn't do it.

He got her pregnant, moved into a new house in Ireland with her and their first child, _loved_ her…

…but he didn't marry her. He didn't do it.

* * *

**(Ireland, 1967.)**

They still went to their local Catholic church every Sunday, though, despite the stares (what was an unwed couple (one half whom was even Protestant) doing coming with their unbaptized child?).

Nobody ever said anything.

Jay and Avis just pretended not to notice because they actually didn't care.

* * *

**(Ireland, 1976.)**

But James Moriarty Number Two—or, more traditionally called, The Second—_did_ notice and he _did_ care.

While his little brother (and the newer littler brother) were oblivious, and his parents _pretended_ to be oblivious to the accusatory glares, he kept his eyes to down planning the future in which people would not look down on his family.

It hadn't taken him very long to figure out what the problem the fellow churchgoers had with them, and once he did he asked his parents why they didn't just stop going to church (after before asking "why aren't you two married?").

As usual, he didn't receive an actual answer.

"Because it's just something that we do." His father had said, "Like an unspoken rule."

(James knew better than to mention the fact that his father had broken many other spoken and unspoken rules.)

"Why should we?" His mother had said, "Let them stare." And she had smiled. She liked the attention. Liked the _rebellion._

* * *

Avis also liked the number five.

She was twenty-one when she had her first child. Five years later, she had her second and five years after that she had her third.

Three children, two parents. A perfect family of five.

Five was her favorite number. She liked it because it was asymmetrical and strange. Imperfect and so it was perfect to her.

The name 'James' had five letters. And so she had fallen in love with James Moriarty Number One (and she was the only one to ever call him 'James').

She also each of named their children, all boys, after him. Sure, there were other names with five letters, but Avis loved James Moriarty and so she wanted as much of him as she could get.

(Besides, Jay didn't seem to mind the tribute.)

Avis also loved flowers.

She always had a garden whenever it was warm enough outside and greenhouse when it was not.

There was a lot of order to gardening; not just the control of nature—_the becoming a god—_but in the nature itself. Plants _seemed _organic and random, but when observed long enough and in enough detail, all the patterns are visible. It just takes the right mind to notice them. Even tree branches grow in a pattern, but it's too complicated for most people to see and most people don't care.

(She had been planting and tending to flowers ever since she was a little girl raised to be polite, proper and rich. She had also always been smart. But young ladies of society weren't 'smart'—they were educated, yes, of course—but smart, contemplative, opinionated and outspoken they were not (allowed to be). Flowers were the one thing she didn't leave behind when she ran away from home.)

Avis wished she had been named after flowers (there were so many pretty flower names; Rose, Lily, Daisy) instead of after birds.

Avis had never liked birds. They picked at the seeds of her flowers and landed on them, defacing them.

* * *

**(Ireland, 1982.)**

One of her sons, however, did.

The middle son, James Moriarty Number Three—or, 'Jamie' for short—a quiet ten year old who was small for his age, was fascinated by birds.

His whole life, instead of playing with the other boys from school or bothering his older brother, he would just stare up at the sky or at the tops of trees (or, at his mother's defaced garden) and watch the birds fly.

Just the fact that birds could fly even though they weren't machines like airplanes or helicopters astounded Jamie. He wanted to know how it was possible and why, if humans were smart enough to invent planes and helicopters, than why couldn't humans learn to fly?

"Birds have hollow bones." Avis had tried to explain, once, as if birds' hollow bones were proof of their evil.

"But so do I." Jamie had replied, excitedly. He knew about the condition was born with that made his bones weak. Maybe it could finally be useful, instead of limiting, to him.

To that, his mother had just shaken her head and said "that's not the same."

Still, Jamie didn't give up. When his parents were at work (and James wasn't watching his little brothers like he had been ordered to do) he attempted to build parachutes and hang-gliders—wings—out of blankets and sticks, sometimes with the help of his wide-eyed but unemotional young brother Jimmy.

When he found dead birds on the ground he picked them up to play with (dissect) and took them to where he hid under the big tree in the little woods behind the neighborhood.

When he found live birds on the ground he would nurse them back to health until they could fly again…and then sob when they flew away from him once they had the chance and the ability. (He never tried to keep them in cages, though.)

Five year old, Jimmy didn't much care for birds but tagged along on Jamie's excursions into the nearby woods to find birds' nests because it was less boring than staying inside and bugging his oldest brother, James, while he sat in his room studying.

During one such excursion, an autumn afternoon afterschool, Jamie and Jimmy brought their newest set of wings out into the woods to test.

So far, the blankets stolen from the linen closet had only slowed their inevitable falls to the ground (the way a balloon losing its helium gently sinks to the ground), giving them comfortable landings onto the layers of dead leaves below.

But this time their wings were not made out of blankets. They were made out of cardboard. They had hollow insides, like tough paper straws(—or, like bird bones).

They were huge, too, dwarfing both the boys, made wide to create the maximum wind-resistance, hopefully supporting their weights (one at a time) and allowing them to 'fly' (fall very slowly) or at least glide for as long as possible.

Jamie and Jimmy had climbed the big tree one handed, carrying their wings between them in their free hands so that it looked as if a large bird was soaring at a ninety degree angle up towards the top of the tree. They stopped when they reached the last few branches thick enough to support them and lay the wings flat across two branches above them.

"I'll go first." Jamie declared, then carefully rotating his feet on the branch he stood on while holding on with both hands to a branch above him so that his back faced his little brother, "Help me put them on."

Jimmy stared at Jamie (Jamie's back, Jamie's feet planted as squarely as possible on the long brown branch, Jamie's hands braced against another identical branch higher up) from the branch he balanced on, bravely holding onto nothing.

He was shorter than Jamie but Jamie was skinny. He could see him trembling as he held on tight, arms and legs locked in place. _He wondered how much of a push would make him fall…_

Jimmy had always obeyed whatever his older brothers and parents ordered him to do. He did it automatically and had never considered doing anything else. That was just the way things were. Those were 'rules' for living life.

But how could they really be rules if not everybody followed them? It didn't make sense.

Jimmy had always done as he was to—but _Jamie_ didn't, not anymore, and James _never_ had (as far as Jimmy had seen).

They didn't follow the rules and it didn't make sense. It wasn't _fair._

Mum told Jamie not to play with birds, but Jamie played with them anyway. He brought baby birds into the house even though mum hated birds and when mum had killed the one that wouldn't stop squawking Jamie had _hit_ her.

He had actually _hit _their mother, an adult, who was in charge.

And she hadn't even hit Jamie back. She had yelled at him, yes, but neither she or their father had hit Jamie back even though they would have hit Jimmy or James if they had done the same thing because Jamie was 'sick'.

It wasn't _fair._

And James, he was told to babysit his little brothers every day after school while their parents were still at work. He was supposed to feed them a snack and have them within his sight at all times.

But he didn't.

He told Jamie and Jimmy to go play outside so he could have the house quiet and all to himself and he locked the door until thirty minutes before their mother was set to return so they couldn't get inside and disturb him.

(Now, Jimmy and Jamie didn't really have a problem with this but it was still disobeying orders.)

It wasn't _fair._

_It didn't make sense…_

Why did Jimmy have to follow the rules, but his brothers didn't?

Maybe the world _wasn't _a logical, orderly place in which everyone did what they were 'supposed to do' and things just were the way they were because they were the way they were.

Maybe the rules didn't matter and the world was changeable.

_Maybe Jimmy could do whatever he wanted to do… _

And so it was then, standing on the branch and staring at the back of his older brother, that Jimmy decided he didn't want to do as he was told and so he wasn't going to do it.

"No." he refused_, "I_ want to go first. Help _me _put them on."

Jamie carefully rotated himself back around to glare at his younger brother.

"I'm going first." He asserted.

"But you always get to go first!" Jimmy complained.

"I'm older than you so I get to go first." Jamie reasoned, "Those're the rules."

"That's not fair." Jimmy dismissed, "I wanna go first so I'm going first."

"No you're not." Jamie denied, "They're my wings, and now I'm not gonna let you use them at all."

"I helped you build them." Jimmy reminded.

"Well, I designed them, it was my idea to use the cardboard." Jamie returned, "My design, my wings."

"Not if I steal them!" Jimmy decided.

He reached up for the wings, spread like a canopy above them, but Jamie was taller and quicker. Jamie grabbed the wings and pulled them down towards him, rocking backwards with the jolt.

Jimmy watched Jamie stumble but catch himself on the branch behind with one arm, twisting sideways and feet sliding slightly on the bark.

Now Jamie was only holding the wings with one hand and so Jimmy saw his opening, reaching across the drop between the two separate branches they stood on and snatching the other side of the wings.

Jamie was taller and older…but _Jimmy_ was stronger. He wasn't 'sick'. He tugged the wings towards him and they came towards him.

So did Jamie.

Refusing to let go of his creation, he let go of the branch he had caught himself on and so was pulled forwards with the wings in his hand in the direction of Jimmy. His feet slipped of the branch.

Jamie was small for his age—but not that small. He weighed roughly the same amount as Jimmy did and Jimmy was not strong enough to hold onto the wings he held in both hands _and_ Jamie. And Jimmy wouldn't let go of the wings, either. He was too was pulled, down, by Jamie's weight.

The two boys fell.

* * *

When Jimmy awoke the forest around him spun as he opened his eyes.

Looking up he could see the trees stretching skywards for what seemed like forever. There were birds above, chirping and flitting about from tree to tree.

Jimmy realized he was laying on something soft. Cardboard. The wings were underneath him.

Underneath the wings was Jamie. He was still asleep.

Jimmy stood up and looked down at his big brother, the carefully-cut cardboard covering him like a blanket.

Jamie was too big for Jimmy to carry back to the house and so he had to go back home to get his oldest brother James to do it. (James wouldn't be happy about this, of course, but he'd be happier about this than having their parents find out what had happened on his watch instead.)

Leaving Jamie safe under the wings and watched over by the birds and the big tree, Jimmy ran out of the little forest and all the way home.

* * *

James left his room and the books his father said he spent too much time with when he heard a light but persistent knock on the front door. He recognized his youngest brother's knock and almost ignored it, but for the fact that he knew Jimmy would keep knocking until he answered.

"What is it?" James snapped, upon opening the door and glaring down at Jimmy. His clothes looked dirty and his skin looked scraped, but that was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Jamie fell asleep in the woods." Jimmy explained, "You have to carry him back or I'll tell mum we were outside all afternoon playing with the birds because you locked us out."

James groaned.

"Fine," he acquiesced, "Take me to him."

* * *

The walk through the backyard into the little forest was quick and silent.

Jimmy led James to the big tree and then stood by Jamie under the wings, gesturing to indicate what James could plainly see for himself.

And what James saw were the cardboard wings, slightly crumpled but lying flat across Jamie's body. _Not moving._ There was no up and down movement of deep breathing during sleep. The wings were motionless and so was Jamie.

James bent, checking the pulse on Jamie's neck first and then brushing the wings out of the way to check his chest. No breathing.

Nothing.

The only sound in the forest were the birds still singing to each other and the occasional rush of a car driving past in the distance.

Jimmy watched James, quietly, shifting his weight back and forth from one leg to another, waiting for James to pick up Jamie so they could all go back the house.

Instead, James stood back up, turning to Jimmy and looking at him with a scary, angry look Jimmy had only ever seen their father have before when he'd learned that Jamie had hit their mother for killing the squawking baby bird.

It hadn't fallen when trying to fly, it was too young. It had been pushed out of its nest one spring by its sibling. James had explained that its sibling had wanted all the food for itself. Their father said that it was weak and so Jamie should have left it to die. Those were the rules of nature. Their mother had taken it out of the house and stepped on it in the yard. She was only following the rules. And then Jamie had run outside after her, screaming and crying louder than the baby bird had ever been squawking, and hit her. He'd broken the rules.

"What happened?" James asked, eyeing Jimmy with their (shared) mother's eyes and their father's look.

"We made wings and we were going to fly." Jimmy explained, truthfully because he hadn't yet learned to lie, "But we fought and then we fell."

James said nothing for a moment, considering and then, because he had no other choice, accepting Jimmy's words.

"Go take a nap." He ordered, "And don't get up until I tell you to."

And Jimmy obeyed.

* * *

Jimmy eyes were closed but he was awake in the bedroom he shared with his older brother Jamie. The lights were off but the window let in the brightness of the afternoon sun.

A long time (or what felt a long time to a five year old child) later, Jimmy recognized the sound of his oldest brother's footsteps climbing the stairs.

Jimmy quickly pulled the covers of his bed over his head to hide his open eyes. He never slept at naptimes but he always pretended to.

The bedroom door was already open, and Jimmy listened to James enter the room and set something—presumably Jamie—down in the bed across from his.

Some nights, he and Jamie would lie awake whispering to each other all night. James had his own room because he was the oldest (which didn't make sense because their parents, even older, had to share).

Once Jimmy had heard James leave the room and go back down the stairs, Jimmy removed the covers from his face, and turned to lie on his side so he could face Jamie. Jamie was lying on his back, though, and no matter how many times Jimmy whispered to him he didn't wake up and answer. Finally, Jimmy just gave up and turned to lie on his back too, staring up at the ceiling as if it was the sky.

It was sunset, and the room was dark, by the time Jimmy finally fell asleep.

* * *

James waited in the front doorway for his parents to return.

He knew calling the paramedics or the Garda would not only be useless at this point, but bring unneeded and unsolvable problems to his family (particularly his father) and so he didn't bother.

Instead he just waited.

Avis arrived home from her job as a receptionist first, walking back from the nearby bus-stop and untying her long brown hair.

James met her in the front yard.

"Jamie fell out of a tree." He informed her, then adding before she could even react, "I put him in his bed but he is not going to wake up."

"I…don't believe you." Avis replied.

"You may check for yourself." James allowed, as if he had the authority to deny, "But Jimmy is in bed too, taking a nap. And if you scream, if you cry, he_ will_ wake up. So be quiet."

Avis looked at him, then over at the house and the window of her younger sons' room, and then back at James.

She said nothing, pushing past him and striding into the house.

James followed, again waiting in the front door way as she walked up the stairs, into the room, back out, back down the stairs, back out the door past him, and then back down the street she had come from, tying up her hair again as she went.

As instructed, she was silent the entire time.

He genuinely didn't know if he would see her again.

* * *

When it was dark, their father finally returned.

He parked his car, got out and started towards the house. Seeing James standing in the doorway he questioned "And what are you doing out in the fresh air?" more caustically than jokingly.

"Jamie is dead." James stated.

"_What?"_ Jay checked, stopping.

"Jamie is dead." James repeated, "He fell out of a tree. Must have hit his head."

"Where were you when this happened?" Jay demanded, now marching towards the house and his oldest son.

"I was with Jimmy." James lied, "We were looking for Jamie. He got lost in the woods. By the time we got there it was too late."

"You were supposed to be watching them." Jay reminded, accusing but controlled, pointing a finger at James, _"Both_ of them."

"I'm sorry." James said honestly.

Jay shook his head in disgust, turning from James and heading a way from the house.

"Where are you going?" James called after him.

"To find your mother." Jay responded, not looking back at him, "She's run off, hasn't she?"

"Yes." James affirmed.

"I'll find her." Jay stated, "You take of Jamie's body. You can handle that, can't you, _'son'?"_

"Yes, sir." James nodded.

He waited outside in the yard until he'd seen his father walk off in the direction he knew his mother had gone in. Then he went and did as he was told.

* * *

James was back outside in the yard again when Jay and Avis returned.

Avis, ghost-like, said nothing as Jay led her inside and lay her down in their bed.

Jay came back downstairs and outside once he had, then addressing James.

"Did you burry him?" he asked.

"Yes." James confirmed.

"Where?" Jay followed-up.

"In the woods." James said, "You won't find him. No one will."

"Take me to him." Jay replied.

* * *

James had found a rotting log in the little forest and rolled it out of the way. He'd used his mother's gardening shovel to dig the grave of already loose earth, put Jamie inside, then covering him up with the dirt and the rotting log.

When the leaves from the surrounding trees fell and rotted, they would add further cover. It would happen soon, perhaps in the next week.

"There." James said, pointing at the dead tree trunk.

Jay passed James, then bent to roll back the log and check for himself. Before he did, he pulled the cross he always carried with him, hidden in his pocket, out of his jacket along with one of his wife's flowers from her garden.

"I don't think leaving a marker is a smart idea." James warned.

The flower wasn't the problem, but the metal was. It wouldn't decompose.

"I've done a lot of things that weren't smart ideas." Jay dismissed and rolled back the log with his other hand.

There in the grave, under all the loose dirt, Jamie was not visible.

The cardboard wings that James had found and placed over Jamie as a blanket, however, were.

* * *

It was night, and the sky and the house were completely dark when James told Jimmy to wake up. He did as he was told and followed his brother outside.

Everything the family was going to take was already packed into the car—except for Jamie.

"Where is he? Where is he?" Avis kept asking, frantically scanning the darkness and refusing to get into the car when everyone else was already inside.

She'd done a headcount. She'd counted again and again but the number of James Moriartys never added up to that perfect five she needed. Never again.

Eventually, she gave up and got in the car and the family drove away from their nice house in the nice neighborhood that would just assume they'd skipped out on their rent.

* * *

**(Northern Ireland, 1982.) **

Jay had old friends back in Belfast, he knew he could get work there, and so that's where they moved.

The house they had there was smaller, though, and in a neighborhood that was much less nice. The family had moved in as a family of four and so they never mentioned that there had used to be a fifth member.

Still, things attempted to return to some pretense of normal.

It was easy for Jay, who had never much loved his weakest son (or any of his sons, for that matter. not really.) and it was easy for Jimmy who was young and so didn't understand and soon forgot.

It was a bit harder for James, who blamed himself (although he never once expressed any actuality or polite farce of grief), but it was hardest for Avis who everyday tried to count to five and never got there and so everyday gave up.

It was only when Jay was around (and he wasn't around very often because of his job) that she even bothered to try to act normal (or, at least, her old self). And on some nice days, she'd garden outside. Mostly, she'd just clean since it was solitary, repetitive and it was much safer indoors.

James and Jimmy went to school, Jay went to work and for days he was gone, and Avis stayed home and cleaned. And at the dinner table, unless Jay was there, nobody would talk.

* * *

**(Northern Ireland, 1984.)**

One rare day that Jay was home, he told his sixteen year old son James that it was time he start 'contributing' to their family.

(The implication, of course, was that that 'contribution' would really be to the 'cause' and that that 'contribution' would involve a gun (or some other kind of weapon.))

The very next day, James had already packed his things and moved out.

* * *

**(England, 1984.) **

To England.

James's scores were good enough to get him in early to a good university (which, coincidentally, he attended at the same time as another young man his age, whose scores were also good enough to get him in a year early, named Mycroft Holmes who he had no classes in common with and so had no reason to become 'friends' with) but he was careful to transfer schools every year just on the off chance that his father bothered to send some sort of retribution after him for leaving.

* * *

**(England, 1986.)**

And James was sure that off chance had caught up with him at his new university one fall term when two men in black suits got out of a black car to stop him on the sidewalk.

"James Moriarty." The first addressed, "We know who you are and we know who your father is."

A posh English accent, like the one James had been practicing but never able to get quite right. So the men _weren't_ sent by his father, after all…

…which meant they were probably some kind of police or other British authority (which could be just as bad—_or worse)._

"I don't have any information." James declared, "I don't talk to my father anymore and he'd let you kill me if you capture me to try to use me as leverage against him. I don't care about him and he doesn't care about me."

"We know." The second accepted, "…so would you be willing to set him up?"

* * *

**(Northern Ireland, 1986.)**

Phones could be tapped and so James had to cross the sea back over to the island he had never wanted to return to.

He met with his father in a pub that Jay had chosen specifically to make James feel uncomfortable, out of place, and possibly in danger just for being there. He looked over-dressed in a standard button-down and far too much like his English mother.

Jay had smiled (sneered) when he saw him.

Inside, they sat glaring across from each other at a wooden table on wooden chairs. Jay drank, James nursed.

"You have quite the nerve to come to me for help after two years of silence." Jay began, "What do you want?"

"I don't want your help." James corrected, "I have a deal to make with you."

"A deal?" Jay scoffed, "What kind of bullshit is—"

"I can get you and your people a lot of weapons." James interrupted, matter-of-factly.

"And how're you going to manage that?" Jay inquired.

"I met this foreign student at university." James explained, "He's from Libya and his father is rich there, he knows people in the government with access to Soviet weaponry. They'll smuggle it here and sell it cheaply if they're given assurance that it will be used against the British Government."

"Why would you want to be involved with this at all?" Jay questioned, "You've always played by the rules, 'son', what made you change your way of life now?"

"The money." James stated plainly. It was something that his father would understand, "The student approached me. A spy from his consulate knew who I am and knew who you are so he knew who to come to. If I hadn't been offered the amount he paid me, just to come here and talk to you, I wouldn't have done it."

"I don't believe you." Jay dismissed, shaking his head and chuckling; bitter and knowingly, "You forget that I know you. Just because you've been gone the past two years doesn't mean I didn't raise you. I know you're not greedy, you don't want luxury. Money is just means to an end to you and you only want as much as you need to do whatever you want. So what is it that you want?"

James sighed. A pause to think. He needed a more believable lie.

…or, perhaps, a _truth._

"I want Jim to come and live with me in England." James said.

Jay smiled (sneered) again.

"There we are, I knew there was something." He responded, taking a swig from his mug in celebration, "…but how can I trust you with the only son I have left?"

"Because he's the only brother I have left." James reasoned.

"And whose fault is that again?" Jay reminded.

"Mine." James accepted the responsibility, "And that's why you can trust me to take care of Jim. You know it would be a better life for him in England."

Jay took another sip, this time contemplative. A pause to think.

He knew James was right. Jimmy, now called 'Jim', _would _be safer in England.

And besides, Jay really needed those weapons.

If trading his youngest son to his oldest is what got him them, then he would do it.

Jay set down the mug and extended his hand.

"Son, looks like you've got yourself a deal."

* * *

Two weeks later, on a dark and moonless night James stood on the beach with a briefcase full of money.

Next to him on one side stood a foreign fellow student from his university (who really did exist and really was Libyan, but whose family was pro-West and had sent him to school in England because they had been on the British side for generations since colonialism) and on the other side stood his father.

Behind them stood several of Jay's men, there to help with the unloading of the tiny speedboats set to arrive very soon. James could hear Jay (and his people) muttering about it "taking too long" but soon enough, they heard the roar of motors drown out the rush of the ocean.

The boats were not lit, but when they got close enough those on the shore were able to watch their approach. They got as close as possible without getting caught in the sand, and signaled with the flash of a flashlight for their buyers to wade out into the water, over to the boats, and begin unloading.

James, Jay, and the foreign student remained on the beach as this occurred.

It was dark and they were unable to see what was happening in the water, other than the shapes of people moving around and the boats bobbing up and down in the waves.

By the time the figures returned to shore, it was too late for Jay to act when he realized that instead of carrying crates of Russian guns, his people's hands were up and other people had guns pressed to their backs.

Suddenly the lights of the boats in the water turned on. They were so bright, blinding those facing them at first.

"What the hell?!" Jay exclaimed, holding a hand in front of his squinting eyes.

In his other hand he already held his gun.

"Her Majesty's Coastguard!" one of the silhouettes, black against the background of blinding lights, shouted, "Put your hands up!"

"Put the gun down, father." James ordered, as if he had the authority to.

Jay turned to glare at him, growling "You set me up!" then he raised his gun. Disobeyed.

James looked at his father, then at the gun, and then back at his father. James knew the look in Jay's eyes meant he was going to shoot.

A deafening gunshot rang out, but it was Jay that fell down to the sand, his once free hand clutching his once full one, now empty and bleeding.

His gun had fallen, too, somewhere onto the beach. Even with the floodlights from the speedboats, it was too dark to find it. Maybe it had rolled into the water and been washed away.

James blinked once, at the loud noise, and then watched as a uniformed man picked his father up off the ground and handcuffed him.

Jay and his coworkers were led away by the Coast Guard and handed off to more men in black suits waiting by black vans. They were silent. Not cursing, not complaining and not talking. They wouldn't break, wherever and to whoever it was they were being taken.

Once they had gone, James was alone on the beach with the foreign student he couldn't really consider his 'friend', either. The student nodded at him politely and headed away.

The briefcase of money remained in James's hands.

That was part the deal, after all.

* * *

Also part of the deal was that James Moriarty Number One would not go to prison like the rest of his 'ragtag band of rebels' (as the pompous head of whatever ministry of the British government (they hadn't specified) that James had worked out the details with called them).

Jay would simply return to his home in Belfast and live there under house-arrest with his not-wife, Avis.

…under the constant guard of a certain private-military company James had contracted to supervise his parents for their own protection from anyone who might have heard how their son had betrayed them—as well as to keep Jay from escaping.

The money James had earned setting up his father was more than enough to afford the fee. The rest he used to invest (money making more money) and for himself to life off of.

* * *

**(England, 1986.)**

And to support his little brother Jim.

The final part of the deal was that, as promised, little Jimmy (who was not so little anymore at ten years old) would come to England to live with James.

…it would be a better life for him, _safer…_

A new life in a new country. A new home and a school.

* * *

**(England, 1989.)**

A new enemy.

Carl Powers.

* * *

**(England, 1990.)**

Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**(Northern Ireland, 1991.)**

After living peacefully with the occupation by private-military employees in their home for five years (Avis had gone back to gardening; she stopped counting as long as Jay was around and now he was _always _around), Jay got tired of the death threats the gunmen found almost daily when rooting through the mail and decided to rat out all of his former friends who now hated him for what his son had done.

He couldn't leave his house, due to the conditions of the deal James had worked out with the British government, and so he invited the British government agents and the officers of the Northern Ireland Police Service over for 'tea'.

They sat around on couches and chairs, Avis serving the tea (which she had made herself out of dried leaves from her garden) and other light refreshments while her not-husband drank whiskey and prepared to address the authorities awaiting what "very important information" he had to tell them.

Finally, Jay stood up from his chair, setting down the bottle and clearing his throat.

All eyes in the room, including those of the guards that had been 'babysitting' them for the past five years, looked at him expectantly.

Jay smiled (sneered).

The house had blown up and to bits before he had even opened his mouth.

* * *

**(England, 1991.)**

James stood in the top floor office of the private-military company's skyscraper headquarters in London, arms folded and face blank, as the current CEO attempted to explain the situation to him.

From what the local authorities could tell, it had been a homemade fertilizer bomb. Everyone inside the house had been killed instantly by the explosion.

"I warned you my parents would try something—"

"But they were so cooperative for the last five years. How could we have known?"

"I told you they were smart. I told you they'd bide their time. Your people were supposed to be watching them."

"I'm sorry! It won't happen again."

"_It won't happen again?"_

"We'll give you a full refund—"

"I don't want a 'refund'. It was your employees who died for their own negligence. What I want is assure that my brother and I will be protected. There were already so many people who wanted my father and me dead. After what's happened there will be more. And now that he's dead, my brother and I are the only targets—and with names like ours we cannot hide."

"We can protect you and your brother…as long as you don't set foot anywhere in Ireland. There, we can't guarantee your safety."

"Don't worry, my brother and I aren't going back there ever again."

* * *

The CEO promised his private military company would protect James Moriarty Number Two and James Moriarty Number Four as long as they wanted them to, and _for free,_ too, in order to make up for the… "regrettable incident" (as the pompous CEO James had worked out the details with had called it).

But that was not enough. Somebody in the company had to take the fall, the responsibility, for what had occurred and so the company's Board of Directors fired the CEO in charge at the time, replacing him with Mr. Porlock who was much more cautious and whom they would oversee more carefully.

The Board still honored the now previous CEO's agreement with James, and even allowed and paid him to oversee their financial information whenever he felt like it, as a further apology and a 'show of good faith'.

And whenever James felt like he needed gunmen, the company sent them, no fees and 'no questions asked'.

* * *

Meanwhile, there was an administration change in the British government and so an unspecified ministry that James had worked with lost all of its records in an 'accidental' office fire (or was it a flood?), including the records pertaining their operation using student James Moriarty to set up his father criminal James Moriarty in exchange for custody of ten-year-old child James Moriarty (they'd referred to them by numbers, as well, for convenience).

In the midst of this complicated chaos, James paid a low-ranking record keeper to replace any of the entire British government's files on him and his brother with fake ones that indicated that they had been born and had lived in England their whole lives. The change was made during the change from paper to computer.

* * *

**(England, 1992.)**

James watched, but did not wave, as sixteen year old Jim boarded the airplane that would take him far away from England (hopefully never to return again).

He had tried so hard to help his little brother, but it was too late. Instead of being able to fix him, he just had to send him off to where he could ravage and ravish the third world like the wild animal he was.

Thinking back, James wondered if 'Jimmy' hadn't died along with Jamie when they'd fallen out of that tree together all those years ago.

James did not recognize the monster that Jim was now.

* * *

There were four James Moriartys. Two of them were left.

But there was only ever one Jimmy and he was dead.

* * *

**Well, there you have it and I hoped you liked it. The phrase 'Number Two' made me giggle a bit. I've grown 'old' but not up. **

**Except the next and final (sort of) chapter much sooner. **

**(Of course, _how much_ sooner depends on the reviews.)**


	30. Morality

** esmelocked: by the time you had reviewed chapter 29, I had already uploaded chapter 30. Fast enough for you? **

**And here is the final chapter of this story! FINALLY! Sorry it took so long and thank you so much for being here for me and my story this entire time! **

**There will be an epilogue after this. I will post it as a new story but it will only be one chapter. However, if anyone has any requests I can add them to that new epilogue story. **

**But first! More random speculation:**

_**At the beginning of 'The Reichenbach Fall', Sherlock receives diamond cuff links and a tie pin as gifts for solving crimes. He says he doesn't "wear ties" and all his "cuffs have buttons". **_

_**Jim uses a diamond to break into the Crown Jewels case, and wears a tiepin on his tie when he meets with Sherlock. **_

_**Probably just a coincidence, but…**_

_**And also, in 'The Hounds of Baskerville' Sherlock says Mycroft's name "literally opens doors" and they use Mycroft's access to get into the lab. Then next episode, Jim is talking about "in a room of locked doors the man with the key is king".**_

_**Maybe Jim wasn't talking about himself, but instead about Mycroft. Especially because he also told Sherlock "your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to do". **_

_**In 'The Great Game' Jim's crimes were violent, killing and kidnapping people. However, in 'The Reichenbach Fall' all he did was pretend to try to steal, didn't actually take anything, go quietly to jail and court, and then later only kidnap but not kill the Bruhl children and threaten to have people killed but not actually kill them. The only people who really died were hitmen, not innocent civilians. **_

_**What if while Jim was captured by Mycroft, Mycroft tricked him into thinking that he hated Sherlock, pretended to hire him to kill Sherlock and set him free giving him permission and help to commit some crimes as long as no one was hurt. Meanwhile, Mycroft actually warned Sherlock about all that and then helped him fake his death. That way, Mycroft could get whatever information he wanted from Jim, and control him, and then have him 'take care' of himself by telling Sherlock how to create a situation in which Jim would have to commit suicide. **_

_**I'm not sure why this plan would need John not to know about it, but in 'The Great Game' scene in the lab it looked like both John and Jim had the same watch which may have had something to do with the military. **_

_**Or Maybe Mycroft never trusted John as much as Sherlock did, and ever since John was Jim's hostage he suspected that the two may have been working together but Sherlock just cared too much about John to even consider that. Maybe when Mycroft was telling John about all the assassins on Baker Street, he wasn't actually warning him but instead accusing him or trying to gage if John knew more about the situation than he was letting on. He did ask John "anything you care to share with me?" and "if not Moriarty, than who?" **_

_**Faking Sherlock's death could be the way that Sherlock and Mycroft settled if John could really be trusted or not, determining it from John's reaction to and behavior after Sherlock's 'death'. **_

_**I actually had plans for a fic about all that, but I decided not to start it since there is no way I could finish it before the next series airs and blows it out of the water with canon anyway.**_

**Now onto the last chapter! It's a bittersweet one, and more bitter than sweet. Sorry. **

* * *

Ludmila Dyachenko, a hitwoman from Russia who moved to London six months ago in search of keycode that her government could use to finally triumph against the capitalist Western powers (mainly the US and the UK), had moved into the flat across the street from 221b Baker Street (which she was able to buy cheap because it had been blown up two years before and so was damaged).

Having done so now had become pointless because not only was Sherlock Holmes dead and so no longer living across the street, someone had also released the code to the public making it useless because anyone could use it.

And so now Ludmila was stuck in England, hiding from her bosses because she had failed her mission, and on her way down Baker Street towards the nearest grocery store where she had gotten a job.

The sun was rising, orange but faint behind layers of gray clouds, pushing up and away the dark blue night. Most of the city was still a sleep, but every so often a car or person would putter by as Ludmila made her way to work.

Suddenly, one such car or person emerged from an alleyway like a long shadow.

He was a man, but not an average human-being. He stood towering and imposing in front of Ludmila, at least seven feet tall and dressed entirely in black.

The Golem.

(Ludmila recognized him by of his very recognizable size, as all hitpeople knew of each other.)

She reached for her gun instinctively, but realized she had stopped carrying it ever since the other two hitmen on Baker Street had been shot and she'd gotten a job at the grocery store.

Seeing her empty hand, The Golem smiled.

Seeing his smile, Ludmila turned to run.

She managed to sprint two steps before The Golem's long arms extended and caught her by the neck.

Instantly they began to squeeze. Ludmila could feel her face heat up as she was unable to breath. Her lung gasped for air that wasn't there. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

She never had the chance to scream.

* * *

Doyle the criminal who had tried (and _failed)_ to rob the Bank of England, managed to pay his boss back (with the help of James Moriarty (and not the one who had set him up in the first place)) and get back into said boss's 'good graces'.

He returned to working as the boss's second-in-command, committing whatever crimes he was ordered to without any problems (problems usually going by the name 'Jim Moriarty') and so all was right with the world…

…_right?_

Wrong!

Doyle had a one final problem. That final problem was that he knew Jim Moriarty was indeed real and so not an actor. Meaning, by logical deduction, that Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud.

This was also a problem for Sherlock Holmes.

Which was why the 'fraud detective criminal' Sherlock Holmes hired a solution. A solution named Oscar Dzundza, more infamously known as 'The Golem'.

The Golem found the next 'loose end' on his list, Joseph Doyle, meeting with his unnamed secret boss in a residential neighborhood. It was mid-morning and most of the houses had been emptied by the occupants who'd already gone to work. The Golem found the one house where two people lived and were still inside, taking the back door completely off its hinges (setting off the home security system) and rushed inside.

He found his target in the sitting room, standing up from the armchair he'd been seated in across from his boss, an elderly woman who happened to be his mother, a table of still steaming tea between them.

Doyle pulled out his gun and pointed it at the intruder. His was big and had a silencer.

So did his unnamed secret boss (who remained in her armchair). Hers was purse-sized.

"Who sent you?!" Doyle demanded, "What do you want?!"

Golem said nothing.

"Whatever they're paying you, we'll pay more." His mother offered.

Golem said nothing.

Today was a day of firsts for The Golem.

Earlier that morning, he'd killed his first Russian (and, being Polish, he'd always wanted to kill a Russian) and now he would kill the oldest person he had ever killed (so as not to leave a witness) as well as two women in one day.

Again, Golem smiled. He always did before killing. _(Oscar Dzundza, however, did not…)_

"Last chance…" Doyle warned.

"Just shoot him." His mother ordered.

Golem said nothing.

Mother and son both shot.

They were thieves, not shooters, and so their aim was little-practiced and imperfect. Golem absorbed the bullets hitting his chest with the bullet proof vest he was wearing under his black clothing, bending backwards but not even fall.

Child and parent started aiming for his head, then, emptying their respective guns into the floral wallpaper behind The Golem.

"The security system is on." The old woman reminded, "The police will be here very soon."

Her son, in burst of adrenaline, rushed much larger man as his mother shouted "No!". He was grabbed and quickly choked in front of her.

When Golem dropped the limp Doyle to the ground, dead, the old woman sat in her armchair and waited, patient and polite, for her turn.

She didn't put up a fight.

* * *

The halfhearted light the late morning sun, obscured behind gray clouds, trickled in through the woven basket-like window of the mosque.

It fell on a robed, praying man, alone and on his knees. A curving sword hung on his belt.

He had been a part of an organization that had attempted to assassinate both Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. (They wanted to kill Sherlock Holmes because he had discovered that it was they, under the direction of a Pakistani Intelligence office, were responsible for the murder of an Indian embassy worker. They wanted to kill Irene Adler because she had slept with their leader's first wife.) And much like the Ludmila Dyachenko, he was in hiding from his former brothers for failing his mission to kill Sherlock Holmes.

He thought he was 'off the hook', now, because Sherlock Holmes had publically committed suicide, however he still knew that the detective was not a fraud and so remained 'on the hook'.

The praying man did not notice the tall figure, whose shadow was sliced symmetrically by the crisscrossing window light, approach slowly and silently behind him. He didn't even have time to draw his sword before the giant hands were wrapped around his neck.

His prayers did not save him.

* * *

"So, Mr. Holmes…have you decided whether you're going to have me killed or not yet?"

Mycroft Holmes stood (for what he hoped was the last time) in front of the (second only to his little brother Sherlock) biggest headache of his life, Jim Moriarty.

The insane criminal sat comfortable and confident in a wheelchair, smirking up at Mycroft.

Only hours before Jim had been silent and surrendering, shot in multiple places he was weak and in pain, not making any attempts at escaping the apartment building prison (which was soon to be demolished) or undermining the operations here.

Now, Mycroft could tell just from looking at his face, that Jim had a plan.

"Not yet." Mycroft smiled, politely but grudgingly, "I just came up here to check on you…and apparently Miss Hooper, too, I see."

He glanced the same polite (but not _as _grudging) over at Molly (who was supposed to be locked downstairs in Anthea's office) who smiled politely and awkwardly in return from where she'd tried to hide behind the window curtain when she heard the sound of Mycroft's voice (and the voice of the guard he'd come up with) from outside the room.

"Please, Mr. Holmes, you don't have to kill Jim." She requested, (pleading in hopes of sympathy but rational, as well, in hopes of respect for her recommendation), "You can see he's not a dangerous anymore, he's in a wheelchair. He's not going to try to escape and neither am I."

"You and I both know, Miss Hooper, that the danger of Mr. Moriarty is not his body." Mycroft countered, "It is his mind."

Jim smirked at this and Molly eyes dropped from their level with Mycroft to stare at the ground, acknowledging that he was right and she had been…well, _lying_ really, as she knew the truth about Jim.

She hoped Mycroft didn't notice the dead body of the fellow prisoner Jim had strangled to death that was 'sleeping' on the couch and currently out of sight.

Mycroft turned away from Molly back to Jim.

"Your brother had abandoned you here." He announced, smugly, "He had an army of private military soldiers under his command and still neglected to break or bargain you out of my custody. So, were I you, I wouldn't expecting any help from him—in fact, I wouldn't be expecting to ever see him again. It seems he is done with you, 'Jim'."

"My brother has been 'done' with me before, 'Mr. Holmes'," Jim laughed dismissively, "In fact, two times just within the last year he's tried to cut all ties with me. But he always comes 'crawling back'. I don't care either way, he's only ever bother to me…but 'were I you', I would be expecting a surprise attack by that 'army of private military soldiers' very soon—while you're weak and not anticipating it."

"Even if that does occur, your brother and his people will return here to find a deserted pile of rubble." Mycroft reasoned, shrugging, "This prison is set to be emptied and demolished by twelve this afternoon. We're moving."

"And does 'we' include us, too?" Jim questioned, gesturing to himself and Molly, "Or are you going to leave me and Molly here to be demolished along with the building? Solve your little 'me' problem that way?"

"I honestly haven't decided yet." Mycroft admitted, matter-of-factly.

And with that, he turned and exited the room, closing the door behind him (and instructing the black-suited guard outside not to leave his post until the last possible moment before the building was torn down) and leaving the couple alone.

"So he just left us here to wait, not knowing what he's going to do to you," Molly commented, coming away from the window towards Jim, "That's so…cruel."

Jim chuckled, "I've always admired Mycroft for that. He's less interesting than Sherlock, being part of the 'establishment' and all—or, rather, _being_ the establishment, but he's more natural than his little brother in that aspect. Any cruelty from Sherlock is accidental, for a specific purpose, or provoked; burning and emotional. Mycroft does it by default and principle. He's just cold."

"Then why hasn't he had you killed yet?" Molly inquired.

"Because I think he enjoys seeing me like this." Jim suspected, slyly, "Weak and 'defeated'. In physical _and_ emotional pain. I think he'll keep me like this as long as he can, just to watch. He's got to get his rocks off somehow, after all."

Molly cringed, and then dismissed Jim's last sentence.

"So he'll let you live…for now, at least?" she interpreted the rest of what he'd said.

"For now." Jim nodded, "…but not for long."

* * *

"I'm going home." John had told Lestrade, "It's been a long month."

_(Sherlock is alive.) _

But when he'd left the headquarters of private-military firm instead of trekking (or taking a taxi) back to his sister's house where he had been staying for the past aforementioned "long month", he found, before he'd even consciously realized it, that his footsteps had taken him the familiar journey home to Baker Street.

_(Sherlock is alive.)_

He stood in front of the door to 221, for a long time, looking up at the curtained window of its b flat.

_(Sherlock is alive.)_

He knew Sherlock was somehow alive (despite having jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital), and almost expected to see his silhouette in the window (even though he knew that Sherlock was still at Mycroft's apartment prison).

_(Sherlock is alive.)_

It was early morning, the sun had not yet begun to rise behind the clouds and John had been awake all night. He wanted to go 'home' (home _where?_ His sister's place…or _here?)_ and just sleep.

_(Sherlock is alive.)_

When he slept, he didn't have to think (oh, but he _did,_ he had dreams—nightmares; the same ones he'd had about the war, he'd had about Sherlock).

_(Sherlock is alive.)_

Sherlock watched John from a little ways down the sidewalk and across the street. It was still dark enough for him to follow John unnoticed, but soon it wouldn't be and he would have to face him again—or face having him walking away from him again.

Had John realized that he was followed? Did he know he was being watched?

Maybe he had noticed, and assumed it was one of Mycroft's employees…

…or maybe had noticed and known it was Sherlock and so ignored him purposefully.

Sherlock had lost his only friend once—_permanently_—and for so long after he had refused to have any real friends at all, just people he paid and people who paid him; professional relationships and antagonistic relationships (his older brother included among that category, with the rabble of criminals Sherlock had caught (and Donovan and Anderson)). It was better this way.

However, when Sherlock had met John, moved in with him, invited him to help with his cases—when he had felt the friendship sneak up on him and, instead of hurrying away or preemptively striking it to scare it off the way he always had, he let it pounce and hoped that it wouldn't hurt him—and that _he_ wouldn't hurt _it._ Wouldn't hurt _John._

But he had.

And, once again, Sherlock had lost his only friend.

(It would be so easy just to blame Moriarty for everything. Easy and _right._ It was all Jim Moriarty's fault…but blaming Moriarty wouldn't fix things between Sherlock and John.)

Sherlock had lost his only friend again, yes…but this time did it have to be permanent? Or could Sherlock find some way to regain John's trust and friendship?

Sherlock had noticed that walking away, too shocked and angry to remember his psychosomatic limp, John had started to limp again on his way out of the skyscraper. It was unconscious, just like his journey back to the home he'd avoided since Sherlock's 'death', and it gave Sherlock a sense of hope he knew would be evaluated by the average person (or a psychologist) as sick, selfish and manipulative.

But if John was limping again and back to Baker Street, Sherlock deduced (hoped) that it couldn't be long until John was limping back to him so he could walk again.

And Sherlock was always right.

_(Sherlock is alive.)_

* * *

John returned to the secret government prison hidden in the apartment building under construction only to see prisoners in orange jumpsuits being escorted out by employees in black suits, put into black vans and driven away into the morning towards wherever Mycroft's new secret prison was. Other employees removed computers, paper files, and confiscated items from the building to either be stored somewhere else or destroyed.

A few other black-suited fiddled with the construction equipment, trying to get the crane with the wrecking-ball to turn on and figure out how to use it, so they could demolish the building beside it. As he was being marched out of the apartment building by two men in black suits, the bald hitman stationed to kill Mrs. Hudson had Sherlock not 'committed suicide', who also happened to be a construction worker as a 'day job', offered to help them. Warily, the government employees, guns drawn, allowed the Australian hitman to help.

John could see Anthea standing in the midst of this hurried disassembly of the prison, 'directing traffic'. She was shouting orders and gesturing with her hands, free because of her lack of smartphone. (She didn't really need to be doing this, of course, the employees knew what they had to do…Anthea just didn't know what to do with herself without her lost technology.)

John could also see Lestrade wandering around, looking as if he didn't know what to do with himself either but attempting to look as if he had a reason to be there.

Seeing John, both Anthea and Lestrade started towards him, following him into the apartment building prison when he didn't immediately acknowledge their presences. Not offended at being ignored, they were relieved to find something better to do than what they had been by talking to (or at) him.

Because they had all gone inside the building, they did not see Sherlock enter the surrounding construction site.

In the main hallway of ground floor John found Mycroft exiting the room that had formerly been his office, instructing the employees moving his things to "be careful". Once the employees had filed away with the boxes of files, John approached Mycroft.

"Where is Sherlock?" he demanded, "I need to talk to him."

"Sherlock is where he always is." Mycroft informed, "You only need to turn around."

At that John blinked in surprise at first, and then slowly turned around.

He saw Lestrade and Anthea idling there awkwardly, for finally being noticed by John, and then shrugging confusedly in response to Mycroft's words as neither of them were Sherlock.

Shaking his head, John had already turned halfway back around when he saw a familiar flash of black coat, waving like a flag in the breeze, out of the corner of his eye. His eyes, head, and body turned instantly towards the source of the sight.

Sherlock stepped, almost sheepishly, through the front doorway he'd been standing in.

Lestrade, who had been told that Sherlock was somehow alive (despite having jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital), still gaped in shock at actually seeing him there, living and breathing.

He and Anthea moved off to each side of the long hall, giving Sherlock room to continue towards John.

But Sherlock remained where he was in front of the doors.

A safe distance away, as if he was afraid that if he came any closer John would leave again. _No, _not _'as if'._ He was actually afraid. Terrified.

And so Sherlock remained where he was in front of the doors. Blocking the exit.

"John…" he began, as he had before. What else_ could_ he say?

John remained where he was as well.

He sighed. There was almost—_almost_—a smile in it, nostalgic because he realized that Sherlock had been shadowing him again.

"How long have you been following me?" John asked.

"From the start." Sherlock answered.

And then they were silent for a moment, recalling better times between them.

(Anthea, Lestrade and Mycroft just standing there, awkwardly, like the third, fourth and fifth wheels of a bicycle.)

Finally Mycroft cleared his throat, causing everyone's eyes to jerk in his direction.

"As touching as this reunion is, we do still have one problem." he interrupted, "The very problem that had it not been for, all of us would not be standing here. I think you all know who I am referring to."

"Jim Moriarty." John and Sherlock identified, in automatic unison.

(And Mycroft was _right,_ John reasoned. Moriarty was at fault for everything that had gone wrong recently, including his current conflict with Sherlock. The only way he could possibly resolve things with Sherlock is if he dealt with Moriarty.)

Mycroft nodded at John and Sherlock's 'brilliant deduction'.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, responding "So, Mycroft, is this 'problem' still in your custody here or have you already allowed him to escape again?"

"He's upstairs." Mycroft stated, "I'm in process of thinking over whether I should have him killed or not. What do you think?"

"I told you before, I don't care." Sherlock said.

"But I wasn't asking you." Mycroft smiled, "I was asking Doctor Watson." He turned to face John.

John met his gaze.

"Why ask me, _'Mr. Holmes'?"_ he questioned, also raising an eyebrow and matching Mycroft's formal use of title and surname with added sarcasm.

"Because I believe you deserve to make that choice." Mycroft replied, evenly and sincerely.

"Alright, then." John accepted the responsibility with a nod, and tried to gather the resolve,"…let's go upstairs and do this."

* * *

Molly had been staring out the closed glass of the windowdoor to the balcony, watching the black-suited employees and orange-jumpsuited prisoners rush out of the apartment building prison and into black vehicles that sped away.

She turned around when she heard Jim wheel up behind her.

"There's still a chance for _you_ to escape." He reminded, "Get away while everyone is distracted by the move. Be invisible like you've always been and walk right out of here unnoticed like a ghost. Leave me here to die."

"I told you I wasn't going to leave you, Jim." She reminded.

"Oh, but I still must selflessly tell you to 'save yourself' and 'go on without me', my dear." Jim smirked, "All the while knowing you never would. It's only polite."

"Thank you." Molly thanked, a halfhearted attempt at matching his joke with a halfhearted attempt at matching his smile.

The cruelest, most terrible and most unfair thing about Jim Moriarty was how charming he was. She could know—even _witness_—all the horrible things he did, get so righteously and rightfully indignant about them—about _him_…and all he had to do was smile, or wink, or tell another clever lie and she would forgive him and fall in love with him all over again _(and again. and again. and again)._

(The same thing was true about Sherlock Holmes, of course…but Sherlock Holmes didn't kill people for fun. (And Sherlock Holmes didn't smile or wink, or tell clever lies to Molly Hooper.))

And the strangest, most confusing and most unfair thing about Molly Hooper was how charming _she _was. Not in the suave, dishonest and manipulative way that made Jim the 'devil' was, but in the sincere, good-intentioned and eager to please way that made her an 'angel' (no matter the 'mistakes' she made). When she played (so naturally that it wasn't even 'playing') the pure-hearted woman, Jim couldn't help but love her for that instead of trying to corrupt her or expose the 'character' for the farce anyone as disillusioned as him should logically assume it was.

When he'd first met Molly, Jim had wanted to dissolve the 'illusion' of her hopeful spirit and make her admit that she had never had any real chance at —or any _real _hope for—happiness in her life and that she _knew_ it.

He wanted to _break_ her. Beat her at her own 'game'.

But now that he saw that she was not pretending, that all through their relationship she had still had her unwarranted, stupid hope (even when she had told him that nothing between them had been 'real' (which she never would have said had it been true)) he didn't want to hurt her—well, not enough to make her lose hope, anyway.

He could see that she was losing it now.

Jim didn't want Molly to be jailed for life (basically as punishment for sleeping with him) by Mycroft, which was a possibility (albeit an unlikely one), if he was or if he was executed. He wanted her to survive this, even if he didn't. After all, _someone _had to remember him fondly (even if only a little bit) when everyone else had forgotten or remembered him with hatred as a criminal or thought he'd been just an actor Sherlock had paid…

"You're welcome." Jim replied, no longer smirking and returning to his earlier tense and guarded evenness; calm like a stormcloud passing over a town instead of raining down unrelenting upon it. Nothing happened, but still the dark above reminded what could.

And then they heard the footsteps of a cloud of people pattering down the hall towards the apartment-cell like raindrops until they stopped outside the door.

Jim whirled his wheelchair around to sit next to the standing Molly, who was already facing the door. The window behind them, they watched and waited for it to open.

When it finally did, Anthea entered first to hold the door open for her employer, Mycroft, his brother Sherlock, John Watson and Greg Lestrade to enter in that order.

Mycroft, like before, did not (or _pretended_ not to) notice the dead body of Rudras Wiggins posed on the couch, eyes closed and hands on his chest as if he was asleep.

Lestrade, however, did.

"He never gives it a rest, does he?" Lestrade commented, laughing in disgust and what he knew should not have been disbelief considering who he was commenting on, "Even when he's been shot, taken into custody and is sitting in a wheelchair he just _can't stop killing._ It's sick."

"The man wanted to die." Mycroft explained, not even glancing over at the corpse.

"And so you let _Moriarty _help him out with that?!" Lestrade called into question, this time with appropriate disbelief.

"It was convenient." Mycroft excused, casually.

To that, Lestrade, John and Sherlock all rolled their eyes. They, Mycroft and Anthea stood by the sofa, some distance away from where Molly and Jim were.

"If all of you are here, it must mean there's been a decision made about what you're going to do with Jim…" Molly addressed them, cautiously.

"Yes." Mycroft affirmed, nodding.

"…what is it, then?" Molly asked, afraid of the answer but even more afraid of not knowing it.

"Honestly Molly, what do you think?" Lestrade laughed again, bitterly, "You know he has to die. You've seen what he's done."

"And you've seen that Sherlock isn't dead!" Molly returned urgently, gesturing at the silent consulting detective that should have been dead, "Jim and I weren't lying about that, and we weren't lying about Jim working for Sherlock, either!"

"It doesn't matter." Lestrade dismissed.

Molly turned to Sherlock, "Sherlock, please, tell them! He was only doing what you told him to, going to Argentina."

Sherlock just stared at her blankly.

He would have feigned confusion had John taken his eyes of the dangerous criminal to glance back at him. He certainly wasn't going to acknowledge working with Jim Moriarty in front of John. If he was ever even going to be on speaking terms with John again, John could_ not_ know about that.

Molly opened her mouth to exclaim something but closed it again because could not think of anything intelligent or useful to say that would convince anyone in the room not to kill Jim. She couldn't even logically convince herself that he shouldn't be killed and she was sure that if anyone asked Jim, he would request to die.

Maybe this _was_ for the best…

Still, Molly threw up her hands and groaned in frustration.

"Someone restrain her." Mycroft order, interpreting the action as having violent intent, "We can't have her trying anything…_stupid."_

Lestrade and Anthea nodded, quickly crossing the room towards Molly and each grabbing one of her arms. She didn't bother to try to escape their grasps as she was escorted over to the other side of the room.

Jim said and did nothing as Molly was pulled away from him.

It was too late. She couldn't have any hope left now. It didn't matter anymore if he lived or died and it didn't matter anymore if she did.

"Any last words, Mr. Moriarty?" Mycroft inquired, chuckling.

"Tell Sherlock I love him." Jim said flatly (although he really did mean it).

Lestrade, John, and Sherlock rolled their eyes again, as did Mycroft and Anthea. Molly closed hers, determined not to let any tears slip out and not wanting to watch.

"Always so eloquent…" Mycroft muttered.

"Thanks. Now let's get this over with. Chop, chop." Jim requested, with a quick double clap of his hands.

"Whenever you're ready, John." Mycroft allowed, gesturing towards Jim but glancing at John.

John, who had been quiet and motionless until then, had already received a gun on his way upstairs. He nodded, pulled it out and started towards Jim in the wheelchair.

"No!" Molly screamed, eyes opening and the word bursting out of her mouth against her will.

John stopped, turning his head to look back at her. His eyes were tired and sad.

"I'm sorry, Molly." He apologized, sincerely but halfheartedly, "I didn't want to be the person to do this, either. I _hate _having to kill. But I will if I have to. You know I have to."

"No you don't!" Molly countered, desperately.

"That's enough." Mycroft warned, eying Molly and then Anthea, who understood the look telling her to cover Molly's mouth and so did so.

Molly thought about trying to bite her hand. It was something Jim would do. Then she thought better of it.

It was too late to dramatically confess her love to Jim before he was killed but doing so would only have made her seem even more pathetic than she already did and Jim already knew anyway. (Besides, it wasn't like she would receive a confession in return as Jim's last words the way Sherlock had.)

John turned away from Molly, gun in hand, and continued towards Jim. He was careful to look the man he was about to kill in the eye as he raised his gun and pointed it at his target. Even Moriarty deserved that much, he reasoned, everyone did.

Jim, surprisingly, averted his eyes. He gazed down at the wooden floors as if ashamed.

Before in Buenos Aires, Jim Moriarty had had a gun in his hand when he was baiting John into trying to kill him. He had been standing upright and walking around, he had just shot someone else and had then threatened to shoot others. He was responsible for the death of John's best friend, Sherlock…

…Now Jim Moriarty was silent and staring at the ground as if he was afraid or feeling guilty. He was accepting his fate without physical or vocal protest. He wasn't holding a weapon; in fact, he was even injured and confined to a wheelchair. And Sherlock was alive and no longer John's best friend.

_Before it had been so easy…_

…Now it _wasn't._

And John knew, knew, knew, _knew_ it was just another one of Moriarty's tricks and he knew that this had to be done, but he still could not bring himself to do it. He couldn't pull the trigger.

And it was so easy to pull the trigger of a gun. Just tiny finger movement, so quick…You can regret it for the rest of your life but what's done is done. And done _so fast._ However, the long moments leading up to pulling that trigger last forever. And the longer it he wait is, the longer the time you spend _not_ doing it, the more likely you are to not do it _ever._ To do nothing.

Death is an inevitable reality, and so humans cope by simply not thinking about it. Contemplating it for long periods of time is painful. And killing is the exact same way. _Don't think about it, just do it. _Because thinking causes emotions, and the heart and the mind are really just the same thing.

"I can't do it." John said. He turned away from Jim, back around to face Mycroft, Anthea, Molly, Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Well then…" Mycroft accepted, a bit taken aback and disappointed (but trying politely to hide it), "…Anthea." He looked from John over at her.

Anthea released her hold on Molly, retrieving her own gun and heading through the group and the room towards Jim.

"No." John added, not moving from where he stood between her and Jim, "Don't do it at all. Don't kill him."

Anthea paused, glancing back at Mycroft to see whether she should continue and just push John out of the way or give John a moment to come to his senses and get out of the way himself. Mycroft's nod allowed the latter.

"Why not?" he asked John.

"Because we have to better than him." John declared, plainly, "What's the point of stopping him if we're the same?"

"We're not—" Anthea began, but was quickly interrupted.

"We are…" John insisted, "…if we kill him—or any of these prisoners you had locked up here or anyone else we happen not to like because of what they've done. And it doesn't matter what they've done, does it, because I doubt any of them had their day in court—"

"Actually, Jim did." Anthea corrected, matter-of-factly.

"And he was found _not guilty."_ John returned, "Sure, he bought the jury but who are we to be his judges and executioners? Killing him won't bring back the people he's killed, it'll only make our body-count closer to his—however huge of number that is."

"Eighty-nine, I believe." Mycroft identified, recalling what Jim's brother James had said a few weeks before at his old secret prison in the countryside, _"Ninety,_ if we count Mr. Wiggins here." He gestured at the dead body on the couch.

"And how many people have_ you_ had killed, 'Mr. Holmes', during your time working for the British government?" John demanded, "And how many of those killings were actually officially sanctioned?"

"That's classified." Mycroft stated.

"It's more than ninety, isn't it?" John suspected, almost smirking in snide disgust, "I've killed four people, myself. Three in Afghanistan and one right here in London. And I think about every one of them every day."

"Then you realize how ridiculously hypocritical you sound right now." Mycroft responded.

"Yes I do." John affirmed, matter-of-factly, nodding, "And that's why I can't do it. I'm not going to kill someone for killing when I've killed."

"Oh come on, John!" Lestrade interjected, "You can't_ really_ buy into all that 'judge not' and 'turn the other cheek' crap, can you? You know Moriarty deserves to die. _Has_ to."

"All the people I've ever killed have been standing up, holding a gun and about to kill me or someone else." John recounted, then pointing at Jim, "Look at Moriarty. Does he fit that description that right now?"

"He did just kill that man over there." Lestrade reminded, pointing at the corpse on the couch.

"And that man must have let him, like Mycroft said." John agreed, "Moriarty is weak. He couldn't have been able to kill him otherwise."

Lestrade shook his head, "John, Moriarty is not the person to take the moral highground for. What changed your mind this time—?"

"That doesn't matter." John told Lestrade, then speaking to the entire room, "Now, Mycroft said that it was my choice whether Moriarty dies or not. And I've made my choice. I say he lives. That doesn't mean I want him out on the streets, no, he needs to be locked up for the rest of his life. But if you all want to go against what've decided, then I'm not going to have any part of it."

"Fine." Lestrade grumbled.

"As you wish, John." Mycroft accepted, "You may go now, if you'd like."

"And you'll kill him as soon as I'm gone, right?" John 'deduced', chuckling with that same snide disgust.

"Would you like me to lie?" Mycroft inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"You people really are just like Moriarty." John said, "All of you think you're gods."

"Not me." Lestrade snorted, in offense, "I just want what's best for the general population."

"You were with the police for a long time, Greg." John responded, evenly, "You know that killing Moriarty won't make a _dent _in all the danger there is out there. No matter how many criminals you kill, there will always be more."

Lestrade snorted again, this time in surrender. "Alright." He relented, "I'm done here. I'm going back to Baker Street, picking up my kids and going home. I hope everyone here makes the right decision, and I hope you can live with yours, John, if anything happens."

John said nothing as he watched Lestrade walk out of the room and eventually out of the apartment building prison for the second time within the last twenty-four hours.

Once he was gone, John didn't leave as well. He remained where he was standing in front of the criminal he'd earlier sworn to kill. He had changed his mind again, but he wasn't going to say just _what_ had changed it.

Sherlock then spoke up after having quietly observed the scene without comment. "John, are you willing to talk to me now?"

"I think you can see I'm a bit busy right now, Sherlock." John acknowledged, preoccupied but friendly as if it was the 'old days', then adding suspiciously "Unless you're _trying_ to distract me…" because it wasn't the 'old days' anymore.

"I'm not." Sherlock said, "And I'm sure Mycroft will make sure no harm comes to Moriarty, at least long enough that I can explain to you why I had to fake my death."

He glared over at Mycroft to make sure Mycroft agreed and said, "Yes, of course. Take as long as you need to talk. Nothing will happen to 'Mr. Moriarty' while you're not here to protect him. You may use my office downstairs if you don't want to have this conversation in front of him."

"Okay." John accepted, nodding at Mycroft and then turning to Sherlock, "Sherlock…?"

And so Sherlock nodded, too, and the two of them exited the room.

"Although I did say you could take your time, please remember that this building will be demolished by noon." Mycroft called after them.

In the hallway their footsteps could be heard stopping and then starting again. Their eyes could not be heard rolling.

And when their footsteps could no longer be heard, Mycroft turned back to Jim and Molly.

"Miss Hooper, you are about as dangerous as a safety razor." He compared, "A harmless object unless in the hands of your shaving man, and even then only capable of causing shallow cuts—and more often to himself than to others."

Molly blinked.

"…what?" she questioned.

Mycroft sighed.

"I recognize that you are not a threat to my operations." He explained, "And so, I'm giving you one last chance to leave. Walk away from Jim Moriarty right now and you won't be bothered by the British government again—unless, of course, you bother _us _first. Your life will return to normal and you can go on with it. However, if you choose to stay here, we're going to have to treat you as if you were as much a criminal as your boyfriend is."

Molly looked at Mycroft and then at Jim. Jim didn't look at her, he was still staring at the floor, and so she looked back at Mycroft.

"I won't leave him." She declared.

She _wanted to,_ of course. She wanted to take back so many things she had done, choices she had made, have everything be forgiven and forgotten. And now was her chance. A chance that most people never received. And yet she wasn't taking it.

If John Watson who had every reason to hate and want to kill Jim Moriarty was able to not take his chance to kill him, and even argue to save his life, then the very least Molly Hooper could do was stand by her decisions and principles. It might even help with John's new and surprising cause, as well, since although Jim had called Mycroft 'cold' and 'cruel', Molly was pretty sure that Mycroft would not have Jim killed in front of her.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft checked, "Are you truly willing to suffer the same fate as the criminal you've only at most aided and abetted? He won't be killed, not without John's approval, but he'll wish he was dead. Locked in a dark and empty room alone, confined to a straightjacket for the rest of his days. Unable to move, unable able to speak, with only his own mind as his company and torturer. _So bored…_He won't be dead—but he'll _wish_ he was. Are you sure you want that for yourself, as well?"

"Please, you can't do that to him!" Molly exclaimed, "That's so…_cruel!"_

"It's no less than he deserves." Mycroft reasoned, "Especially if he has the privilege of living."

"No, no one deserves that." Molly countered, shaking her head, "Doing that to him would make you as bad as him. John is right about that—"

"Then John should have allowed me to kill him." Mycroft interrupted.

Molly was about to speak but Anthea beat her to it, offering a weak attempt at giving 'woman to woman' advice, hoping that it would get through to Molly enough so that she could get her to at least leave the room.

"Forget about Jim." She troped, robotically, "He doesn't deserve you. You can do better."

Molly just gaped at Anthea in shock that she had even said such…_normal_ sentences.

"…I'll just go see to the move now, then, sir." Anthea decided, awkward and embarrassed, turning to Mycroft who nodded. On his cue, she quickly took her leave.

Once she was gone, Mycroft walked over to where Jim sat, silent and staring at his feet, in the wheelchair.

"Still have nothing to say?" he prompted, then adding when Jim didn't respond, "At least explain this…why are you so obsessed with my brother, Sherlock? For so long you have been and yet you barely even know him—you know what it's like to be _like _him, perhaps even to_ be_ him—but you don't _know_ him and he doesn't know you. So _why?"_

At that Jim finally looked up to meet Mycroft's gaze, smiling because he knew the answer to his question and had always wanted to reveal it.

"Sherlock Holmes…" Jim sighed contently, closing his eyes to enjoy the sound of the name without distraction, "He's brilliant, a genius—but not just that. He's the one thing that never gets old. _Not to me._ He's the only thing—the only_ person_—that I've never gotten bored of. He's an ageless immortal classic…and yet so _new_ and _different_ at the same time. How could I _not_ be 'obsessed'?"

Mycroft snorted at Jim's words.

"You care _so much_ about him, you've wasted your life trying to get his admiration…but you mean_ nothing_ to him." He sneered, cruel and cold, "Never have and never will. It's pathetic, actually."

Jim was undeterred. He continued to smile. He looked at peace. Like the wisest man who knew all the secrets of the universe…or like the blissfully ignorant idiot who knew nothing.

"Even so, I'd like to talk to him one last time." He requested, _"…Alone."_

* * *

John and Sherlock stood in the room that used to be the manager of the apartment building's office, then later used to be the manager of the secret prison's (Mycroft's) office, and now was just an empty room with one window and no furniture.

John closed the door behind him and asked, "Okay, Sherlock. Are you ready to tell me why?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, turning to him, "But first, let me just apologize for any—"

"No." John interrupted, "I've heard enough apologies for lies from Mycroft. I don't want to hear them. I want _answers."_

"Fine." Sherlock sighed.

And so Sherlock told John how he had never meant to stay 'dead' for so long, and never would have had Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran, and Mycroft Holmes not distracted him. He even admitted that he was wrong about thinking that Moran had wanted to kill John (and decided not to mention that he was right about thinking that John had wanted to kill Moran).

Finally Sherlock explained, that his purpose in making the world believe he was dead was not only so he could capture all the criminals Moriarty had ever worked with, but so that he could erase all evidence of his and Moriarty's existences—a job that he was not yet finished with.

"Why?" John asked.

"Because, John…" Sherlock answered, "I have a job proposition for you…"

* * *

Mycroft, against what might have been his better judgment (at least by the standards of any sane, ordinary (but not genius) person), had left Jim and Molly locked in Rudras's apartment-cell upstairs (with a guard in a black suit outside this time, of course) to go down to his former office and retrieve his brother Sherlock Holmes so he could talk to Jim Moriarty "one last time".

The only reason he was doing this was because Jim's request might anger Sherlock and John so much that they both decided that it would be a good idea to have Jim executed after all. At least that was what Mycroft was hoping for, anyway.

Without knocking (because in all his life, he'd never knocked when barging into a room on his brother—and this time, it was his office anyway), Mycroft opened the door to the room to interrupt Sherlock and John's conversation.

Upon hearing the door open, the two stopped speaking and turned to glare at whoever it was disturbing them. It was Mycroft. Neither of them were surprised.

"Sorry to intrude," Mycroft 'apologized', "but our problem prisoner has requested a private meeting with you, Sherlock."

"Alright." Sherlock quickly and shockingly agreed.

John, taken aback and blinking in surprise, said "You don't need to listen to anything he has to say, Sherlock, you know it'll be bullshit."

"He might have important information to tell me." Sherlock reasoned, ambiguously, "He might try to trade in exchange for being killed instead of being imprisoned. He'd rather die than be bored."

"I know." John stated.

And then Sherlock was taken aback and blinked in surprise, as was and did Mycroft (although neither of them were as expressive about it as John had been).

They had just realized that perhaps John's 'moral highground' in sparing Jim's life was less moral and less high than they had originally believed. Perhaps it was even _cruel _and John was a better actor than he let on.

…or not.

Sherlock and Mycroft, geniuses as they were, honestly could not tell. They looked at John and there was nothing on his face to indicate the truth.

"I'll go with you." John added, telling Sherlock.

It took a second for the Holmes brothers to register that he had spoken. A second that the average civilian wouldn't even notice, but maybe—_just maybe_—a soldier would.

"Well, I won't." Mycroft declared, matter-of-factly, "I've had about enough of Jim Moriarty."

* * *

Molly was already standing outside the door, fidgeting nervously next to the uncomfortably rigid guard (who was afraid of the prisoner behind the door, despite him being in wheelchair), by the time John and Sherlock arrived back upstairs.

The long hallway was dark as usual, and their footsteps loud on the hardwood, making their approach suspenseful and dramatic.

Molly had heard them coming before she had seen them and she was sure Jim had as well.

What Jim had to say to Sherlock and why Sherlock had agreed to even talk to Jim (when he was apparently pretending that the two had never worked together these past two weeks) she did not know and guessed that she probably never would. She didn't know if she would ever get used to that frustrating, ignorant feeling.

Sherlock looked at Molly, as if evaluating her, and then walked past her and the guard into the apartment-cell where Jim was. He left the door open a crack.

John moved so he could watch the room, Sherlock and Jim, though the crack. Sherlock, although perfectly capable of protecting himself and having never appreciated being babysitted, but when John had told him that he "didn't trust Moriarty alone in a room" with him, Sherlock, who was trying to get back into John's 'good graces', was not 'in a position to refuse' John's observation.

And so John observed…as did Molly, also peeking through the crack in the door. Even the black-suited guard watched too.

But none of them could distinguish words from the whispers of Sherlock and Jim.

* * *

Jim had posed himself dramatically in the apartment. He'd had Molly turn the lights back off so that Sherlock would have to turn them on when he walked in, and once she'd gone out into hall to give him his 'privacy', he'd rolled over to the windowdoor, opened it and gone out onto the balcony to look out upon the scenic view of the construction site.

Sherlock could feel the hint of breeze as soon as he entered the dark room. He didn't bother to flip the lightswitch, and instead walked through the darkness towards the bright, shifting sunlight breaching into the room through the curtains dancing in the wind.

Jim's back was to him and Sherlock calculated exactly how much force he could use to push Jim out of the wheelchair and over the railing; make Jim fall to his death the way Jim had tried to make him fall.

But it was just a mathematical exercise. He didn't do it.

He knew it was what Jim wanted it and what John _didn't_ want.

Instead, Sherlock just stepped to stand behind Jim. Jim had heard him approaching and tilted his head backwards to stare up at Sherlock and smile.

"Hi." He greeted.

"What do you want?" Sherlock questioned, evenly, looking down at Jim the way one would look at a spider trying to climb up one's leg before shaking it off and stepping on it.

"I just wanted to know…" Jim began, "…has the good doctor taken you up on your job offer? He has, hasn't he?"

"So you've finally figured it out." Sherlock commented, not answering the question.

He moved around the wheelchair to stand beside Jim. Jim spun his wheelchair so he was facing Sherlock.

"You want to disappear—make everyone believe you were never even there." Jim explained, lazily, "Of course that means you want to travel the world solving crimes in secret. How exciting."

"What does that have to do with John?" Sherlock inquired.

"You're not _you_ when you're with John." Jim answered, "Not the you _I _knew for longer than you knew me. By the time we finally met, you were someone new. And you like that you better."

"…yes…" Sherlock confirmed, guardedly. The amount of the word 'you' didn't confuse him, but it did annoy him.

"The new Sherlock Holmes needs a John Watson." Jim completed, "You can't be you without him, not anymore. And so he'll always be following after you."

"Actually, it's the other way around." Sherlock corrected, "And either way, it's better than having _you _after me."

Jim grimaced at the insult, and then quickly turned it into a sarcastic grin.

"It's really not." He countered, "We could have been so good together…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If that is all you have to say to me, I'll take my leave of this conversation—" he started.

"No!" Jim interrupted, too angrily and too urgently. Hastily he calmed down and added, "Today is my last day to be your archenemy, before you and your John go on to 'bigger and better' things out there in the 'cruel, cold' world. Just let me enjoy it."

"You were never my 'archenemy'." Sherlock dismissed, "That was always Mycroft."

"Your supervillain, then." Jim insisted, "And you're my hero."

Sherlock sighed boredly.

The only reason he was still standing there, listening to Jim's "bullshit" (as John had put it) was because he knew Jim would have a point eventually. He always did. He just also always took the long, winding and doubling-back way to get to it.

"You really are a hero, Sherlock, " Jim continued, "John still believes you are, even after everything….Want to know how I knew he would forgive you and agree to work with you again?"

"I assume you're about to make some joke about sex." Sherlock preempted so that Jim would not be able to.

"Did you two have fun downstairs in your big brother's office?" Jim did anyway.

"I offered John a job, like you already know." Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly (only realizing how his words could be…_reinterpreted _after he'd already said them).

"I knew he would take it because he didn't kill me." Jim declared, seriously, "John wanted to kill me _so bad _before_—_almost _did_ too—back when he thought you were dead…but as soon as he knew you were alive he couldn't do it. And you know why, don't you? We both do."

"Off you go then." Sherlock said, wryly and almost smiling.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?" Jim grinned, eager to play along.

"No," Sherlock replied, "I want you to prove you know it."

"John knows we're the same." Jim proved, "We're polar opposites and yet we're the same. _Equals._ We balance each other out like magnets. We need each other to exist and the world needs us both."

"John doesn't think like that." Sherlock disagreed, "And the world doesn't need _you. _The reason John didn't kill you is because he saw an injured, insane man in a wheelchair and his sense of morality stopped him from pulling the trigger._" _

"Oh, but John _does_ think like that." Jim insisted, "He saw that I had faked my death and then that you had done the same. He saw that I used people and that you do the same. He saw the way little Molly followed me all over the world, despite herself, and that he did, and will do the same, despite himself, for you. He saw that you and I are the same…John couldn't kill _me,_ Sherlock, because that would be like killing _you."_

"Then you should be thanking John for your life." Sherlock responded, "Not calling me here to ask me to kill you."

"You think that's why I wanted to talk to you?" Jim scoffed.

"Well, that was the most likely reason." Sherlock reasoned, "It's what _I_ would do, were I you and had whatever it is my brother has planned for you to try to 'look forward' to. You did say that we are 'the same'."

"I just wanted to see you one last time." Jim admitted, "I didn't have any motivation other than that. But by all means, kill me if you want to. All it would take is a push."

He turned his head away from Sherlock to glance over at the edge of the balcony, and then down at the muddy ground below. Sherlock mirrored the movement.

When he looked back at Jim, Jim was facing him again and smirking.

"Who was it that shot you?" Sherlock redirected, eyeing Jim's bullet wounds, "John?"

"Sebastian Moran and Gregory Lestrade." Jim answered, "The two of them, John and Anthea teamed up and tracked me down, all the way to Argentina, to try to kill me. But your boy John's shot missed."

"No. John has perfect aim—"

"It was Anthea's fault. She shot him."

"_What?!"_

"He was wearing a bullet proof vest, genius. You've just seen him, he's fine. But your alarm is adorable."

Jim chuckled.

Seeing Sherlock emotional and irrational was always fun, and causing it was even more fun. _Still, Jim knew that no matter what he did to Sherlock, he would never be the one that Sherlock was emotional and irrational for…_

"But big bad Mr. Moran never did hunt down Doctor Watson." Jim continued, "You know he was working for your brother for a while, right?"

"Yes, I did. I warned Mycroft against it. Insisted he had him imprisoned again once his job was complete."

"Anthea let him go. She had a little fling with him in the island air—the Balearic, not the British—and so she let him go out of sentiment. He's free. Just thought you'd like to know in case you wanted to 'take care' of that…"

Sherlock paused before speaking, like he considering what to do with this information, but then said, "Moran has proven himself not a threat. He worked with John and did not try to kill him. There is nothing to 'take care' of."

"_I_ worked with you and didn't try to kill you, _I've_ proven _myself_ not a threat." Jim returned, "…and yet there your dear loyal John is, watching us through a crack in the door because he doesn't trust me. I'm hurt you didn't tell him about 'us'."

He turned his head away from Sherlock to glance over at the door to the room, open only a crack, and through it at the people staring in from outside. Sherlock mirrored the movement.

When Jim looked back at him, he was facing him again and smirking.

"You're jealous." Sherlock corrected, smugly.

"Of him? Yes." Jim admitted, "Of _you?_ No. Mine is better than yours."

"Wrong." Sherlock countered, _"Mine_ can shoot a gun."

"I get to fuck mine." Jim topped, cheekily, "And nobody judges since it's…ew…_heterosexual."_ He feigned a shiver and facial contortion of disgust at the last word he'd spoken.

Sherlock, once again, rolled his eyes.

He had had far more than enough of Jim Moriarty for one life time just within this exchange between them—let alone the entire time they'd been enemies and later working together.

"This conversation is over." He decided, turning to go so that his flailing coat slapped Jim in the face.

"Wait!" Jim called after him, "One more thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock, sighing, stopped and slowly, grudgingly turned back around to face Jim.

"What?" he asked.

"A handshake." Jim requested, politely, already extending a hand towards Sherlock.

At that request, Sherlock just snorted. He turned back around and continued away, off of the bright balcony and back into the dark apartment-cell.

"Please!" he could hear Jim cry as he got further and further away from him. He could also hear Jim wheeling himself into the room after him.

"The last time I shook your hand, you shot yourself in the face." Sherlock recounted, back still turned and still walking away, "Think of it this way, 'Jim', I'm saving your life."

And then he was through the door, leaving Jim behind for good in the darkness.

* * *

Finally, John sighed and turned away from the door to face Molly, who, not wanting a condemnation or an argument, tried not to meet his eyes.

"It's okay, Molly." John said, "I'm not angry at you anymore. I'm not angry at all. I'm just happy Sherlock's alive. And since this might be the last time I see you, I didn't want to part on bad terms."

"Oh." Molly accepted, turning to him.

The guard, unable to hear Sherlock and Jim's conversation, also turned to listen to John and Molly's. John and Molly glared at him for this and so he turned back to the crack in the open door and pretended to watch what was happening inside (while still, of course, listening to the two who were speaking outside).

"…so are you and Sherlock okay, now?" Molly asked, tentatively.

"Yeah, we are." John affirmed, nodding but not quite smiling, then admitting "…I probably shouldn't have forgiven him so easily for letting me think he was dead for a month, but when I saw him I just did. Couldn't do anything else. He doesn't deserve it—"

"I think he does." Molly countered, "Sherlock is…different, I know, but I believe he's genuinely a good person. And he did deserve your forgiveness. All he talked about while he was pretending to be dead was how he wanted to protect you. He really does care about you, John, more than he cares about anyone else."

John said nothing, at first, in response to her words. He was quiet as if he was thinking them over very carefully.

Finally, again he said "I know."

Inside the apartment-cell, the voices of Jim and Sherlock had stopped whispering and now the footsteps of Sherlock were returning to the cracked-open door, which he pushed open enough so that he could exit through it, then closing it behind him.

John, Molly and the black-suited guard stepped aside to allow him into the hall.

He stopped only to tell John, "Let's go" and then continued away from the cell, down the long dark hallway, with John leading the way.

Molly was left alone with the guard, watching them go. After their figures and their footsteps were gone, Molly went back into the room where Jim was. Technically, the government employees were supposed to be guarding their prisoners from the inside of the cell, but the young man in the black suit was too afraid to follow her in.

* * *

Having been up all night anyway watching Lestrade's 'spirited' (bratty) children, Mrs. Hudson decided at sunrise just to put on her morning cup of tea and start the day. She could nap later if she felt like it (and she felt like it) once those kids were gone.

At five thirty, Katherine and George had_ finally_ stopped running around and fallen asleep watching television. Mrs. Hudson had carried them (one at a time) upstairs into the b flat and put them to bed; Katherine in Sherlock's old bed, George in John's. (In the back of her mind she had always sort of regretted not having children of her own. _Not anymore.)_

Back downstairs, Mrs. Hudson sat at her kitchen table sipping her tea and trying not to fall asleep herself. Eventually she heard the knock on her door she'd been desperately anticipating. She set down her tea and stood up to answer it.

* * *

Outside in the cloudy morning, three men managed to fit on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street.

John and Sherlock had caught up to Lestrade, who had apparently left his kids with Mrs. Hudson and was going back to pick them up, upon getting out of the towncar and driver Mycroft had loaned them to see Lestrade getting out of a cab at the same time. They were here to tell Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was actually alive (despite having jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital) on John's assertion that it was the right thing to do.

"Alright, now one of us needs to be ready to catch her if she faints." Lestrade warned.

"Oh, she'll be fine." Sherlock scoffed, dismissively.

"Just let me talk to her first, prepare her." John added, "We don't want her to have a heart attack or something—but I will be ready to help if that happen.

"She'll be _fine."_ Sherlock insisted, annoyedly, no longer laughing at the suggestion that Mrs. Hudson couldn't handle seeing him 'back from the dead' without having a medical issue.

"We'll just have her sit down first—" John attempted again, only to be interrupted.

"_She'll be fine!"_ Sherlock declared, again, "For god's sake, her husband was a serial murderer. If she could survive discovering the skulls of his victims he smuggled here all the way from America as 'anthropological specimens', she can survive seeing _me."_

"Okay." John and Lestrade finally accepted.

"Good." Sherlock smiled, "Now, shall we?"

He knocked on the door.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened her front door, gasping and gaping when she saw none other than Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway in front of her as if he had never been, well, _dead._

Hands drawn up to her mouth, she exclaimed _"Sherlock?!"_

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock acknowledged, with a nod.

"Oh, don't tell me this was another one of your bloody experiments again!" Mrs. Hudson snapped, shock morphing into annoyance_, "Dying?!_ Really?! You've gone too far with this one, Sherlock, shame on you!"

Lestrade and John stood awkwardly behind Sherlock on either side as he was scolded. Sherlock himself smiled at Mrs. Hudson, stepped into the room and gave her a hug. John and Lestrade followed, John closing the door behind them.

"So, how did you do it, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked when Sherlock had released her from the embrace, "John told me he saw you fall off of the roof of the hospital and hit your head!"

"I can explain the science over a cup of tea, if you want to put a kettle on." Sherlock suggested.

(Same old Sherlock.)

"I'm not your housekeeper—I'm not even your landlady, anymore and I hardly think you deserve a cup of tea after having everyone believe you were dead for a month." Mrs. Hudson reminded, sternly, then softening and saying, "So you're very lucky I have some water boiled already."

(Same old Mrs. Hudson.)

* * *

"…and that's how I managed to fake my own death." Sherlock concluded.

Sitting around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table in 221a, sipping warm beverages, Sherlock had delivered his monologue explanation to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They didn't applaud, but they were very impressed.

It was almost eight and, answer revealed, Lestrade realized it was time to collect his progeny and go home. He was sure his family would be safe now that Samantha Moran had lost control of the private military firm. And besides, his wife was probably wondering where he was(—if she wasn't with her boyfriend the PE teacher, that is).

And so, after finishing his tea, he went upstairs to 221b to locate the children, with the help of Mrs. Hudson, after finishing her tea too, leaving Sherlock and John to finish their tea at the now less crowded table.

"So where are we going to go first?" John asked, "On this 'grand adventure' of yours that I can't even believe I've actually agreed to. Solving only the most interesting crimes all over the world…do you have cases lined up yet?"

"No, not yet." Sherlock admitted, "I've been too busy attending to…other things. I'm still in the process of eliminating anyone who's ever been involved with Jim Moriarty. They're not like my Homeless Network or my clients who know I'm real, they can't be trusted to keep his existence—and so _mine_—a secret."

"I'll help." John offered, "I'm just wondering now what 'other things' you were attending to this whole month you were 'dead'."

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock explained, "When I found out that he was also still alive after shooting himself in front of me. His brother's employee, Sebastian Moran, as well. I got his from Mycroft and thought he might want to take revenge against you for forcing him to psychologically evaluated."

"Oh, right. _Him_…" John remembered (very _un_fondly), clenching his hand tighter around the teacup as his only expression of anger, "Thank god Mycroft finally arrested him, too. What was he thinking hiring him in the first place when he knew he'd worked with Moriarty before?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, contemplatively and even a tad slyly, "Luckily we won't be having to worry about him anymore…"

* * *

Slowed down and unsteady because of the cast on his injured leg and the crutches he used to walk, Sebastian Moran finally made it up the stairs to the small flat he'd lived in after coming home from the war and kept for storage of (illegally owned) guns after he'd upgraded to a bigger place when he'd started working for The Custodian Group (making more money), and later specifically James Moriarty (making even more money).

As he unlocked the door and hobbled inside, Moran hoped that the government hadn't discovered this place and confiscated all his weapons while he'd been away monitoring Jim Moriarty, chasing Jim Moriarty, and being in custody because of Jim Moriarty.

He also hoped that he never had to deal with Jim Moriarty again.

If Mycroft Holmes was as smart as he (and everyone else) claimed he was, he'd have Jim killed once and for all so he couldn't cause any more trouble. (Moran was sure James wouldn't even retaliate against Mycroft for or prevent Mycroft from doing so at this point (and Moran himself would send 'Mr. Holmes' a "thank you" note.))

Moran reached for the lightswitch and flipped the lights on, closing the front door behind him.

Someone was grabbing his neck. Moran couldn't see him (he had been hidden behind the door, and was now behind him) but could tell that he was tall, not only from the impressive strength, but from the size of his huge hands, one of which alone could wrap all the way around his neck.

There were all sorts of maneuvers Moran had learned in military training, but Moran could tell that they probably would not work on his current assailant, anyway—especially with a leg that had been shot.

And so, instead, Moran used one of his crutches to jab with all his force an area of the body that was extremely sensitive no matter how tall or strong the man.

The attacker, cursing in a foreign language, released Moran's neck to clutch said area of the body, allowing Moran to turn around and recognize who he was.

The Golem.

He'd been somehow involved of one of Jim's ridiculous schemes to get Sherlock Holmes's attention. Murdered some security guard or something.

He glared at Moran, roared and then lifted his hands to lunge forward.

Moran eyed him, expressionless but for a mild hint of the halfway point between annoyance and amusement, then pulled out a gun and shot him. In the head.

The gun he had _'found'_ when Anthea had let him leave his cell while she 'rallied the troops' (in preparation for their big surrender) to meet his sister and her private-military employees outside of the apartment prison he had just been released from. He had taken it with him just in case a situation like this arose (although he imagined that it would be Sherlock Holmes, his sister (or someone on her orders), or a government agent attacking him—not some random giant hitman).

One of his crutches had fallen when he'd drawn his gun, and so Moran bent to pick it back up. Then, carefully and quickly (as possible considering his injury), he exited the flat.

Someone had probably heard the shot and called the police, plus this location had already been 'compromised' since The Golem had been able to find it.

Where Moran was going to go next, he wasn't yet sure but he knew he probably had to leave the city since someone for some unknown reason had apparently hired an assassin to kill him and would still want him dead once they realized The Golem had failed at his job (and died).

Moran really didn't want to ask Samantha for help but because he didn't know who'd sent the killer, he didn't know who else in London he could actually trust to help him get out. He'd have to return to The Custodian Group and hope they hadn't been the ones who wanted him dead.

Sighing, Moran closed the front door and locked it behind him, leaving all of his guns (and this was the second time he'd had to give up a secret stockpile of weapons by no fault of his own) and The Golem behind to be found by whatever authorities arrived at the scene to investigate.

Today was a day of firsts for The Golem.

Today was the first day he had ever died.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes's new secret prison—or, rather, _prisons_—were located in the multiple buildings of a mile disused factories in Addlestone, Surrey (one of which chocolate had once been made inside and kidnapped children had once been held).

Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper had not been left to die in the his old secret apartment building prison when it was demolished, and instead transferred along with the rest of the prisoners, employees, equipment and files to the new locations, old factories, that were still in the process of being quickly converted into prisons.

The apartment building prison had been surrounded by a construction site and yet the grating whirring and banging sounds of construction were never heard there. The factory prisons, however, were echoing with noise.

It was all Molly and Jim could hear (and it was much better than oppressive silence) as they sat (quietly as it was too loud to talk (or even _think)_ anyway) in a backroom of one of Mycroft's new factory prisons, waiting for their captor to arrive and speak to them as they had been told would happen. The room was dark concrete and looked as if it used to be a storage room (for what, though was unclear). What had formerly been a metal shelf was reassembled to form a metal table with metal benches on each side. Prisonlike, indeed.

The roaring sounds of construction suddenly stopped and it became eerily silent. Silent enough so that the couple could hear two pairs of footsteps approaching—leather shoes and high heels—and then the bolted metal door clang open as Mycroft and Anthea entered the backroom to sit down across from Jim and Molly. Jim was still in the wheelchair and so the bench Molly sat on had had to be pushed out of the way to make room for him, causing it to stick out awkwardly from the table and asymmetrically to the position the other bench.

Jim, having already spoken to Sherlock for what would probably be the last time in his life and so saw no reason to speak ever again, was quiet. He stared blankly across the table at Mycroft and Anthea (who was only there with a gun in place of her smartphone for Mycroft's protection). He knew they were just here to tell him all the terrible things that would happen to him (all of which he knew he rightly deserved—despite not feeling bad about _why_ he rightly deserved them) so that he would suffer the anticipation, before then suffering the actual terrible things.

He wasn't afraid, though.

…Molly was feeling all that fear for him, doubly, because in addition to her sympathy for Jim, she also actually believed that Mycroft would make good on his threat to give her the same punishment as Jim would receive. Jim thought that was funny and would have laughed were he not enjoying the look on her face (which was attempting to appear calm while the fear tugged at the corner of her mouth and her eyelids, pulling her eyes wide) and the way her crossed feet, under the table, and hands, in her lap, were fidgeting.

It was probably also the last time he'd see this—her—he realized, then, too. Jim was would miss Molly and all her emotions and expressions almost as much as he would miss Sherlock, his genius, and their Game.

Finally, Mycroft sighed and spoke. He was no longer smug.

"I'm going to give you a choice…" he began.

Jim blinked in surprise.

"A choice?" he asked.

"Yes," Mycroft affirmed, solemnly, "A choice."

"Okay, then." Jim accepted, evenly (and even a little relieved), "Give it to me."

"Alright, there are two options." Mycroft provided, "Option one is that you remain in that wheelchair for the rest of your life, in a prison cell in this very prison. No visitors—no human contact whatsoever and nothing at all to do. You'll get to live but you'll be living like your old friend 'Fred', the one you so 'mercifully' put down yesterday. He lived a good life, don't you think?"

Jim smiled; brief, sarcastic and halfhearted.

"What's option two?" he questioned quickly.

"Option two," Mycroft continued, "is that I arrange for you to have surgery to somewhat—but not _completely_—fix your leg so that you can return to a somewhat—but not _completely_—normal, or at least normal for _you,_ life."

"There has to be a catch." Jim 'deduced'.

"There is." Mycroft confirmed, "That surgery also implants a tracking device somewhere in your body—you won't know where and so you won't be able to get it out—so that my employees and I will know where you are at all times."

"And where _will_ I be?" Jim inquired, "I know you're not going to set me free. Don't tell me you're offering me a job, Mr. Holmes…"

"I am." Mycroft admitted.

"Why risk it?" Jim asked, "You must know that that is a very stupid idea."

Mycroft grimaced at the insult, and then quickly turned it into an insincerely polite smile of annoyance. (He really had hoped that Jim Moriarty would be executed and that he would never have to deal with him again.)

You're insane, yes," Mycroft reasoned, "But you're also brilliant and a brilliant mind like yours should not go to waste. I won't let it. The talents you have can be put to use. And because you're _already _corrupted—already a _killer_—it doesn't really matter what else you do now, does it?"

"I don't think that's the way morality works, Mr. Holmes," Jim smirked, "Molly can tell you. She knows all about right at wrong. She's very good at explaining it."

Jim had meant his words as compliments; tributes to their constant arguments. Of course, though, they had sounded sarcastic and patronizing and so Molly sat silently, staring down at the table in shame.

"I'm sure." Mycroft acknowledged, and then redirected, "But there are different philosophies concerning morality and my subdivision has always subscribed to doing what we must for the greater good. Now, I propose adding _you_ to our selection of weapons. Because what better way is there to fight monsters than with monsters? Criminals than with criminals? You find problems like you and you 'cancel them out'. That way, the innocent people of our country are protected and no _good_ people have to taint themselves by using evil means for good ends. It's logical. Mathematical."

"Cute." Jim sneered.

"You will do it." Mycroft asserted, "You will choose option two and work for me."

"And what if I don't?" Jim tested.

"You won't take immobility, boredom and loneliness in a prison cell for the rest of your life." Mycroft dismissed.

"It's not much less than what I have now." Jim shrugged, "And it really would surprise you, me choosing option one, wouldn't it? You know how I love doing that."

"And in that last act of spite you sacrifice your entire future?" Mycroft disregarded, "I don't believe you would. You're too selfish and you're not stupid."

"I just might…" Jim considered, wistfully. Abruptly he then changed the subject to Molly, glancing over at and gesturing towards her, "You have Molly here. Why is that? You haven't once mentioned her part in all of this. What happens to her if I choose option two…or option one?"

Molly looked back up and at Jim upon hearing her name. Jim's words had sounded carefully neutral. _Too_ carefully neutral. They'd been spoken out of concern, not just curiosity. Molly would have smiled if the situation had been different.

Mycroft smirked, just a little, and a little of the earlier smugness had returned.

"Now, that's the thing…" he said, to which Jim raised an eyebrow in confusion, "What happens to her depends on which option you choose. If you chose prison, she gets to go free. Free from government custody and free from _you—_well, as much as she ever can be, at least…"

"And if I choose to work for you?" Jim followed-up.

"I've witnessed how Miss Hooper has been such an excellent distraction for you, 'Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft recounted, "Your, shall we say, 'consolation prize' for not getting my brother. I've used her more than once to keep you well-behaved. I know it works."

"That's not very original, 'Mr. Holmes'…" Jim yawned, "Using my girl to get to me? Boring."

"Yes it is, but it will still work." Mycroft smiled, "So what have you decided? Boredom and social isolation…or work to keep you busy and a pretty woman to come home to? Which option will you choose?"

Molly tensed at being spoken about so casually, as if she was not there—or just an object. But she was too afraid to say anything. Jim, sitting next to her, noticed.

"Why not let the 'pretty woman' have a say in the matter of her own life?" He scoffed, shaking his head and chuckling, "You urge her to leave me as if you care about her well-being—but not enough not use her as a bargaining chip against me. Remind me again what kind of 'morality' you and your people 'subscribe' to?"

"Doing whatever we must for the greater good." Mycroft restated, curtly, "…and the reason I'm not asking Miss Hooper which option she wants is because we all already know which one she will choose. The morality _she_ subscribes to prevents her fro

m leaving you—especially when she knows what would happen to you if _she_ were to be the person to make the choice, and she chose option one. So she'll be selfless and sacrifice her freedom in order to save you. And that's why I'm not asking her. I'm asking _you."_

"So it really wouldn't be just an 'act of spite', if I choose prison instead of working for you..." Jim contemplated, "It would be _selfless_ one. I would be sacrificing _my_self in order to save _her_…"

He turned to look at Molly, who looked at him with wide and hopeless eyes that he had to look away from (because he'd never seen anything more ugly before, than his reflection in her wide and hopeless eyes) and so turned his head back to face Mycroft.

And Mycroft smiled, again.

"Yes," he nodded, "But you won't do it, will you?"

* * *

**And there you have it! I really hope you liked it! **

**Like I said before, there's gonna be the epilogue eventually and if anyone has any requests or anything I could try to write that, too. **

**Thank you all so much, again, for reading and reviewing. Your support has kept me going this year and last year during some difficult transitions and I'm so grateful for that.  
**

**Please tell me what you think by reviewing! **


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